


And In The End, I'd Do It All Again

by PlatinumAndPercocet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Adultery, American Beauty/American Psycho, Drabbles, F/M, Kidfic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Characters - Freeform, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet
Summary: The choices we make can define us, but what happens when you make the wrong choice for the right reason? Glimpses into how lives intertwine, set to music.





	1. I Love The Way You Hurt Me

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this happened. Another foray into angst because... I guess I didn't have enough? You can blame SnitchesAndTalkers. 
> 
> Kudos and comments make the world go round, Y'all. 
> 
> Not beta'd. 
> 
> Thanks and endless love to SnitchesAndTalkers, Laudanum_Cafe, Das_Verlorene_Kind and Semi-Sweet for being all around badasses and supporting me more than I deserve. I love them to pieces. It is a fact, jack. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: 'Irresistible' by Fall Out Boy

The bathroom wall was cold and hard, the tiles slick against the strip of skin that peeked out from where his shirt had ridden up. Ridden up may have possibly been a bit of an understatement; the garment had been yanked up, pulled out of his belt by greedy, desperate fingers that tugged in his clothes like they were offensive even as soft lips and slick teeth grazed of the sticky, sweaty skin of his neck as his head fell backward with a dull thump. He still had his hat on which was something of an improvement from the last time, and Patrick made a mental note to set it on the counter so that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to bullshit about it getting crushed in flight again. There were only so many times that excuse would work and he was pretty sure that two was the limit. Three strikes and you’re out. Literally. 

Patrick really hadn’t intended on ending up here, not now. Not again. Not ever. And yet, he had, as always. Try as he might, he couldn’t say no to Pete, even if he had wanted to which he definitely did not. There was too much entwined in these stolen moments, there always had been. So, when strong hands had grabbed his hips and steered him, very pointedly through the nearest door he had known what to expect, at least somewhat. When the click of the lock echoed through the chemical scented, overly chilled air, he had been sure. 

Pete was… Pete, same as he had always been. Magnetic on stage, his words echoed back at them by the fans that filled the arena. It was still surreal to Patrick, even after all this time, the power that was woven into the lyrics that he sang, night in and night out. Not surprising at all, this was Pete Wentz for fuck’s sake, just surreal. 

“Fucking on fire tonight, Jesus fucking Christ.” The words were accompanied by a sharp nip against the soft skin of Patrick’s neck and if he had been paying better attention, he would have put a fucking stop to that because collars were a bitch; he had gotten more than his fair share of that while touring for Soul Punk, thank you. But Pete was Pete, and he had always had a thing for leaving marks. Usually, though, they were in places that were a bit more inconspicuous; stinging red marks from bites along his chest, bruises sucked over his hipbones or pressed in perfect formation against his thighs. Once he had left the skin on his ass raw and tender, mottled with deep reds and purples; it wasn’t painful, per se, just a bit awkward, especially on a tour bus. 

The thoughts that coasted through Patrick’s head were shoved away by a warm, rough-skinned hand sneaking beneath his waistband to stroke his rapidly hardening cock, his mind going blank as he felt Pete grin against his neck. 

“For me?” 

It took everything in Patrick to glare, but he managed. Any retort he may have had, and there were many on the tip of his tongue, mostly bitchy and born of anything but the level-headedness he usually prided himself on, vanished as Pete yanked on his jeans and boxers, shoving the hastily around his thighs as Pete sunk to his knees, that goddamn smile that Patrick both loved and loathed pulling at his lips and whiskey eyes dancing with desire. There was very little that could be said in this moment, and so Patrick darted his tongue out to wet his dry lips and threaded his fingers through Pete’s short hair with a nod. He didn’t trust himself, not right now, and bit down to stifle a cry as Pete didn’t waste any time in sliding his lips down over Patrick’s cock. 

His fingers twisted and pulled at short dark strands, and blunt nails scraped along Pete’s scalp as he guided the familiar head into an easy bob, just this side of too fast and too rough. It may have been Patrick getting his dick sucked, but he absolutely was not in charge, not in the slightest, and that didn’t bother him in the slightest. He never was one for being a frontman, he wasn’t good at taking charge and he may not have wilted or hidden from that responsibility as much as he once did, but there was something about Pete, there had ALWAYS been something about Pete, that had Patrick couldn’t help but submit to, at least a bit. 

Patrick’s groans grew louder, echoing off of the walls of the hidden bathroom somewhere in the depths of winding halls in Cincinnati or St. Paul or wherever it was they were tonight; white walls and metal doors tended to look the same after so many years. Granted, it was an upgrade from truck stop stalls, so that was a plus. Pete moaned pointedly around Patrick’s cock, his nails stinging as they dug into round thighs, pulling Patrick’s attention back down to him because, well… Pete was Pete. When the warm, wetness of Pete’s mouth vanished, Patrick pouted, barely hiding a whine, even as Pete closed his lips over two of his fingers, pointedly sucking on them and absolutely making a show of it, in true Pete fashion. 

“Jesus Christ, just fucking do it would you- Fuck!” There was no hesitation as Pete slid his fingers, spit-slick and familiar, past the tight pucker of Patrick’s ass at the same time he took his cock back in his mouth. If it was possible to smirk while giving head, Pete was doing it. 

After over a decade of this...whatever it was, they knew each other well, better than they ever let on and Patrick was, as always, putty in Pete’s very capable hands, his hips pushing back against his fingers and rocking forward into his mouth, the pace erratic as Patrick moaned almost wantonly into the empty air, yanking at Pete’s hair even as his fingers worked, expertly opening him up. 

And then there was nothing. No probing fingers, not hot, warm suction, nothing but warm, familiar eyes and a smile reserved just for him, lightly stubbled chin slick with drool. 

“Counter.” The word was more a command than a request and Pete sat back on his heels, the palm on one hand pressed tightly to the crotch of his jeans as he tilted his head towards the row of sinks to their right. Patrick didn’t bother questioning, or even pulling up his pants any more than he had to, just sliding past Pete and towards the cold, faux-granite counter. He did, however, take his hat off, setting it on a paper towel far from where it could get crushed or wet. The excises just weren’t worth it. 

Patrick avoided looking up, he didn’t need a reminder of where he was or what he was doing; he was very well aware. Besides, looking up meant facing his own reflection and, well, he knew what he looked like, especially right now, the reminder wasn’t necessary so he closed his eyes. Pete, for his part, tugged on Patrick's pants and boxers, shoving them down somewhere around his knees, and trailing callous roughened fingertips over pale skin for just a little bit longer than necessary. 

The tear of foil and a tease of sticky lube over his ass had Patrick smiling, just a bit as he opened his eyes to meet Pete’s gaze in the mirror, not able to look away even if he wanted to. 

“Where in the fuck were you keeping that?” Pete was still dressed in his stage clothes, sweaty and tight enough as to hide very little, and he just smirked, pressing the blunt head of his cock against Patrick’s hole while steadying another hand on his hip. 

“Don’t question Trick, just enjoy, okay?” There was a smile to Pete’s words, and no small amount of affection as Pete pushed forward, groaning until he was fully pressed inside Patrick, fingers digging into lightly curved flesh. 

Patrick didn’t question, he couldn’t even if he had wanted to. Rational thought was gone, as always, replaced by echoes of more, now, again, harder, all bounding in his mind, and slipping, mumbled through his lips. It was the same, always the same, but never repeated. Elegant fingers and sweaty palms slipped on the same cold counter in a different strange city, pants and moans echoed off of walls that shone dull metal in the bright fluorescent lights, and Patrick bit back words that forever danced on the tip of his tongue while Pete babbled nonsense and curses, the usual poetry that he managed to create lost between the sounds of gasped breaths and the obscene slide of skin against skin. It was quick and dirty, always, and Patrick could almost feel himself coming nearly as soon as Pete’s free hand, still slightly slick with lube, closed around his cock. 

“Look at me, Trick….” The plea was breathy and wanton, needed and just for him, and Patrick couldn’t help himself. He looked. Not at himself, that was fairly easy to avoid by now, but at Pete. He had, as was his wont, shucked his clothes and his skin almost glowed in the lights, sweat beading up on the dark ink that he just wanted to lick. And his eyes… Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick was a goddamn hopeless mess; he lost himself in them every fucking time. A few practiced strokes of his hand and Patrick was coming, embarrassingly quickly, painting Pete’s hand and his own stomach with stripes of sticky white. Pete wasn’t far behind, another few forceful thrust that left Patrick shaking and a groan ringing in his ears and he was done, collapsing over onto Patrick, all sweaty skin, solid teeth and hot breath against his neck.

He knew what was next, it never changed, no matter how much he may have wished otherwise. There was a whimper caught in his throat as Pete slipped free, the muffled sounds and wet splat of the condom being tied off and tossed away and then a gentle rustle of clothes being tugged into place. 

Patrick didn’t move, not until there were hands on his now boxer clad hips, tugging him down to the floor, solid and sticky hot in Pete’s lap. It was always the same, always, and he pressed his face against Pete’s neck, closing his eyes and just relaxing in the moment. It should have been awkward, it should have been messy, it should have been so many things, but it wasn’t. It was comfort, and safety and, for the briefest of moments, bliss. No matter what anonymous town they were in, what color the counters were, or how many stalls were behind them, there was always that moment of home when he relaxed in Pete’s arms, no matter how brief. And brief it was. 

Between fingers slipping through his hair, sweat wet and sticky and the fingers that played gentle scales along his spine, Patrick found home on a bathroom floor, every single time in Pete’s arms. But it was fleeting. 

A quick kiss, little more than a press of lips, and Patrick had to hold back the soft, sweet sounds that threatened to slip free a little harder as each year passed and turned into the hand that brushed over his cheek. 

“I gotta go Trick, Lauren …” Pete’s voice trailed off, lower than usual and tinged with something that couldn’t quite be placed, even as Patrick’s fingers twisted in his and squeezed just slightly. The metal was cold between his hot fingers, a silent and ever-present reminder of who exactly Pete was and who he wasn’t. Patrick just nodded, eyes closed, and took a deep breath, reveling in this moment for as long as he could until Pete wriggled out of his arms to get cleaned up. The room suddenly seemed a whole lot colder. 

 

“Uncle P-trick!” The very small voice echoed through the green room half an hour later as Patrick entered, freshly cleaned up, all traces of his earlier debauchery washed away. The tiny torpedo that threw herself against his legs was decked out in full Belle regalia, her wild blonde pigtails askew, one yellow ribbon long gone. Patrick smiled, of course he did. How could he not when the little girl looked up at him with her father’s eyes and that same smile. Aside from her coloring, there was nothing of Lauren in the little girl; she was all Pete. 

“Hey there, Molls. How’s my best girl?” There was nothing insincere about his joy as he addressed his Goddaughter, responding to her raised arms by picking her up and easily balancing her on his hip to get a sticky kiss on the cheek. 

“Good. I watched you and Daddy and Uncle Joe and Uncle Andy. Mama said that maybe I can watch more next time. But you did good and I saw your dance!” Molly was more than a bit enamored with all of her uncles, and there were a lot, but especially so of Patrick, and he of her. Settling on the floor he immediately had a lap full of precious three year old who was babbling away happily about someone named Fancy Nancy and all of her adventures, with her parents watching on. Lauren, as always, had a sweet smile on her face; and was very nearly radiating serenity and calm, a perfect counterpoint to Pete’s constant energy. A pediatric nurse, she hadn’t even known who the band was when they had run into each other in a shitty little diner in Chicago. A year later they were married. Two years later, there was a baby that was the most perfect, tiniest human being that Patrick had ever seen. 

Pete’s face, well, there was less serenity there; he looked tired and for one of the few times that Patrick had known him, he looked his age which… he should, honestly. Bitterness wasn’t one of Patrick’s noble character traits, but he was only human and everyone had flaws, some more than others. The only one in his entire world that seemed exempt from that was the child who was rapidly falling asleep in his lap, her post-show high fading quickly much like his own. 

Somehow, Patrick knew that his own sleep wouldn’t come nearly as sweetly.


	2. I Think I Fell In Love Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're the thing that love destroys...
> 
> Snowstorms, diners, and strangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I updated! I know, I am shocked too. It has been an insane few weeks. 
> 
> So this story... as I said previous, it is a collection of loosely related moments that make up a life and, in this case, an album. Chapters are going to be on the short side so hopefully, I can manage to update on a regular basis. Maybe. This one is made to be angsty, Y'all... I have to balance the sweetness, it never lasts you know. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and questions literally make my world a better place; literally. even a few words can lift an author up that much more. 
> 
> This has not been beta read, although Grammarly is my pal and I love it dearly. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Special thanks and love go out to SnitchesAndTalkers, Laudanum_Cafe, Semi_Sweet and Das_Verlorene_Kind for being the biggest supporters I could ask for. Thank you all so much. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read this little work, I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Aural Pleasure: 'American Beauty/American Psycho' by Fall Out Boy

December 22, 2007

Samuel Beckett was wrong as fuck; You can go home again, but it will never be the same as you remember. Chicago was, and always would be, home to Patrick; he loved the city and when he came home, it was like breathing but it was never quite the same as when he had left, especially if he had been gone for a while. And a while it had been; Between the tours and the ridiculous promotions, the last year had been a goddamn eternity. 

It was cold, frigid even, and he felt like shit. His throat was scratchy and he could feel that tell-tale tickle in the back that said he was absolutely getting sick, no matter how much Pete tried to convince him otherwise, despite being well on the way to sick himself. He was certainly feeling well enough when he had shown up at Patrick’s door, amber eyes shining, cheeks flushed with cold and snowflakes sticking to his four day old flat ironed hair. It hadn’t made a difference as they stumbled through the house in the semi-darkness, leaving a trail of clothing and a series of crashes that Patrick had yet to investigate in their wake. Not a single fuck was given as they fell, quite literally, into Patrick’s bed, the twelve hundred thread count sheets clean and cool beneath dirty bodies; they didn’t stay clean for long, spattered quickly with that specific combination of sweat, come and drool that marked the vast majority of these encounters. 

Patrick wasn’t an idealist, not really, he liked to think that he was in control of what was going on that these trysts were on his terms and it was just fucking. He never as a very good liar. There was too much tenderness in Pete’s voice against his ear, and the casual kisses pressed against his neck on stage were never wholly casual. ‘Kisses on the necks of best friends’ indeed. His own voice drifted through his head and he shook it away; Patrick had always been able to lie to himself better than anyone else. 

Being sick had never stopped Pete before, and it didn’t seem to matter now, sitting at some greasy diner at an unholy hour of the morning as the snow outside kept falling. The place was kitsch as hell but in a wholly unironic way. Their coffee was good though, if a burned, and Patrick sipped his, too many sugars and far too much cream disguising the bitter bite, tempering the flavor with a stack of pancakes that were dripping with syrup, toffee chips, and banana chunks. 

Pete, however, was not quite as subtle. Once they had finished fucking, because again, Patrick was a realist even if it was obviously more than that, his voice had been a touch more hoarse than usual and his skin, although it always radiated heat like a fucking furnace, was hot to the touch, even though he quickly bundled up. Layers of t-shirts, henleys, and a scarf were topped off with one of Patrick’s own hoodies, one of the many Clandestine ones that had somehow found their way into his closet, hanging almost comically loose on Pete’s frame. He had literally drunk cough syrup from the bottle before they had come in and Patrick’s stomach had turned watching him down the sticky confection, the fake sweetness and artificial, medicinal cherry flavor clinging to his breath as familiar lips smacked a wet, sticky kiss against his cheek, burning hot against storm chilled cheeks. 

The bottle sat on the table now, dripping slowly down onto the dulled Formica in a sticky pool, piling up between swigs as Pete rambled on. He demolished his plate of food, greasy bacon, rubbery eggs and chocolate chip and strawberry pancakes laden with syrup laden with syrup and whipped cream tucked away between ramblings about album ideas and the aesthetics of… something. He had lost Patrick, for the most part, when he had started talking about his new design ideas. As much as he supported Pete, and he did with everything in him, there was only so much Patrick’s brain could keep up with, especially when the sun wasn’t due up for a few hours. 

There was a certain sheen to his eyes, a rapid and barely erratic rhythm to his speech that tugged at the back of Patrick’s mind and had fragments of Jeff Buckley playing slowly before he pushed it away; he refused to worry until he was sure. It could be mania, of course, that was always a possibility with Pete, but it could also be the cough syrup. Or, as always, it could have just been Pete being Pete. There weren’t any clues earlier, although Patrick had been rather hard pressed to focus on anything but Pete; hands, lips, tongue, and cock were all the most beautiful of distractions. 

“And so I was thinking that if we-” The rapid-fire speech slowed suddenly to a stop as the bells over the doors jingled and Buddy Holly playing overhead was eclipsed by the sound of very feminine giggles. Patrick couldn’t see who walked in, not without turning around, and he really wouldn’t have cared if it weren’t for the look on Pete’s face. It was one that he knew well, one that always brought a certain sinking feeling to Patrick’s stomach; this was no different. 

Slightly glazed eyes grew almost comically wide and a toffee tinged hand, one that had trailed fucking perfectly along Patrick’s spine not even two hours ago swiped at a stray smidge of whipped cream that clung to the stubble on Pete’s chin. 

“Trick, look. You have to look. She’s kind of perfect.” Pete had no concept of an indoor voice on a good day; when he was impaired it was even worse. Sighing, Patrick set his fork down and twisted in the booth, the cracked vinyl squeaking beneath him until he could see where Pete’s gaze was trained. His heart sank just a little. 

He had been expecting the usual, a hot scene girl with flat-ironed bangs, too much eyeliner, collarbones and hips that jutted like knives. Knees and thighs exposed between the tops of high socks and the hem of a plaid skirt; echoing the expanse of flat belly between shirt and waistband. Pete Wentz had a type and literally, everyone on earth knew what it was. That was about as far from what he found as could be. She was pretty, in the most wholesome of ways, cute even. A pair of thick, strawberry blonde braids poked out from beneath a knit beanie and green eyes that crinkled with laughter were set in a pale, kind face. There was an ID clipped to her scrub top, although he couldn’t read it from here even on a good day, a white thing with red cartoon roses printed on it and a pair of black glasses sat perched on the tip of her turned up nose, that scrunched up as the frames were slid back up into place. Not a single sharp angle or jutting bone could be seen, even with the uniform in place. The sleeves of a black t-shirt ended at delicate wrists and there was not a bit of nail polish to be seen as she easily flipped over the chipped porcelain coffee cup. 

There was something familiar about her that nagged at Patrick even as he turned his back to her, glancing back up at Pete. He looked enthralled. It was fairly usual for Pete, he fell halfway in love with people almost constantly, but that was just how he was, how he had always been. It had almost become part of the ‘Pete Wentz experience’ as he had taken to calling it; more for eager show than anything else. It never really mattered much; a month, maybe a few, and it was on to the next, sometimes it ended well, sometimes it didn’t and when the latter happened, it wasn’t just personal, it was global. 

“I think… what do I say, Trick?” There was an edge of something approaching panic in Pete's voice. Pete, the same man who openly mocked having his dick seen by the entire world was nervous about talking to a nurse in a nearly empty diner at three AM in the middle of a Chicago snowstorm. “I’m just gonna… maybe it’s the cough medicine but I’ll be right back.” He was gone in a blink, the oversized hoodie tossed in the empty booth and Patrick’s stomach sank as he pushed his plate away, the food barely touched and an undeniable sense of knowing, of impending loss working its way through his veins. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can almost always be found at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr. Come say hi. There are some fun little easter eggs hidden throughout here, did you find them? Come let me know!


	3. Just One Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stolen moments and memories on a public stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back, back again. Have some angst for the new year. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are an author's bright spots, truly. They mean the absolute world.
> 
> This has not been betaed, but I do love Grammarly. 
> 
> Special thanks and Love to SnitchesAndTalkers for reading this over and the endless support, Laudanum_Cafe for listening to my weird ass ranting ad the inspiration, and Das_Verlorene_Kind and Semi_Sweet for just being the best. Y'all are amazing and I am thankful every day for you. 
> 
> Endless appreciation to everyone who reads this unusual little tale, thank you for taking the time out of your day and giving it to me, that is such a huge gift. I hope it was worth it. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: 'Centuries' by Fall Out Boy.

October 4, 2009 “Lauren is pregnant.” The words may have been spoken softly but they echoed louder than a shot in Patrick’s ears. Pete was never shy or subtle, ever, but there was something almost reserved about what he said, although the smile on his face, handsome and all teeth, was genuine; it reached his eyes, something Patrick hadn’t seen for nearly a year; not since Lauren was in a white dress, radiant and lovely, and Pete was in a tux. Right after Folie had come out, literally, that night. It was in Vegas, but planned in the most Pete way possible, although lower key that could have ever been anticipated. Lauren was not a fan of the spotlight, although she had learned that it was part and parcel with being engaged to Pete Wentz. In lieu of the bachelor party that had been expected, Pete had fucked Patrick in their hotel room. America’s Suitehearts indeed.

There had been some in between, some real smiles of course, but they had been becoming increasingly rare. Folie had been a mess, at least reception wise; and that had hurt more than Patrick had been willing to admit. The tour was painful, quite literally, peppered with angry words from fans, people who had paid money to see them, screaming and booing any of their new songs. The stress fractures that had been forming over days, weeks, months years, were deepening into cracks that couldn’t be repaired. They had all seen it coming, it wasn’t a surprise. Tonight was it though, the last concert before a much-needed break. One more set; twelve songs and then he could breathe again; they all could. Minus the single song for Los Premios, that was it. They needed the break, all of them. 

It had been easy, up until now, to hide that fact, at least from anyone outside the band. Patrick had, over the last few years, become something of a master at hiding things, even from the people he was closest to. He hated himself for it a little bit. Or maybe a lot. Self-loathing ran deep with him lately. 

The rousing round of congratulations that echoed in the green room brought Patrick out of his slight haze and he shook his head and forced a smile, yet again, brittle and strained although hopefully passable as they all embraced and congratulated Pete who was going to be a father. Of all the things Patrick thought he would see, this was never it. He avoided Pete’s gaze as long as he could, but there was no missing his hand during their high five; he knew Pete’s fingers nearly as well as his own, the calluses and their length, surprising for a small guy, how clever they were and how fucking perfect they felt as they pushed into his ass, of trailed along his cheek in softer moments. Patrick missed them and, again, he hated himself for it. Twelve songs. Just twelve songs. 

It was the usual chaos as they made their way to the stage, and that fear slowly gave way to anticipation, of familiarity that he was eternally grateful for. Catching Pete’s eye for just a moment, a blink even, before they headed to the stage, time seemed to slow in that elastic way that it only has in moments that really matter; everything melted away and for just an instant he was sixteen again, getting ready to play in a goddamn cafeteria at DePaul, with Pete smiling encouragement. And then it was gone in the span of a heartbeat and he was hustled to the stage. Twelve more songs. Just twelve. 

The countdown kept him going and he subtracted after each song faded into the applause Each one was a little harder than the last to sing; the words suddenly meaning more or less than they ever had before. The lights that glinted off of the slim gold band on Pete’s finger were suddenly stupidly bright and Patrick had to fight the emotion in his voice more than once. Fucking Pete. It probably didn’t help that he could see Lauren on the side of the stage, smiling bright and almost ethereal with headphones on, enamored as always. She was such a good person. 

The banter was easy, or so it seemed, but there was a forced edge to it that maybe only Patrick could hear. 

Sugar. Headfirst Slide. Arms Race. Don’t Stop Believin’... almost done. Two…. Saturday. Just one more. 

And then Pete was talking. And there was a chair and… what the fuck? Shaving his head. Fucking Pete. 

Patrick ignored him, as much as he could anyway and started playing. It wasn’t right, at all, playing Saturday without Pete but what the fuck else could he do? He spared glances on occasion, watching as hunks of dark hair fluttered to the stage and the girls in the pit wept, fjords of black eyeliner trailing down pale cheeks. Pete was the consummate showman, after all, red solo cup and smooth head accompanying his smile. 

He only approached Pete once, muttering words that nobody would hear before moving away again. And then it was done, all of it, except for the echo of the crowd. There should have been a weight lifted off his shoulders as he handed his guitar off and pulled out his in-ears; there was not. 

Not as he made his way through the dark to the green room, not when Joe nearly brayed with laughter, the slightly high pitch giving away just how much he had drunk, certainly not when Pete and Lauren came in. She was glowing and Patrick hated her a little as Pete pressed a kiss to her cheek and she rubbed his head with a laugh. Dropping his water in the nearest trash can, he mumbled some excuse or another, something that made no sense even to him and he gave no fucks at all. 

He just needed quiet, just a little bit, just for a minute. The halls seemed labyrinthine and never-ending as he wandered, his shoes squeaking against shining floors. 

The respite was found, as it had been so many times over the years, in a bathroom. Empty and smelling of disinfectant, the dull metal of the stalls and fixtures glowing almost surreally in the fluorescent lights. It was disturbingly familiar, the ease that Patrick felt in strange fucking bathrooms. It was also a testament to how fucking far they had come; graffiti covered and piss-reeking bathrooms in truck stops to Madison Square Garden. This was supposed to be the highlight of his goddamn career and here he was, right back where he always ended up. Salt sting his eyes and he blinked the tears back as much as he could and then the door opened, the hinge far squeaker than it should have been, and then, only then, were things right again, in whatever fucked up definition of the word that Patrick inhibited these days. 

“Trick.” The nickname was one that turned his stomach coming from anyone else but from Pete, well… from Pete, it was allowed, just for now. 

“What.” His voice didn’t shake and for that Patrick was proud, but he still couldn’t make himself turn around, staring blankly at the mirror in front of him. 

“I didn’t- you left.” Pete’s voice was small, almost frighteningly so, and when his hand rested on Patrick’s waist, he started, jerking away and hitting his hip against the counter. It would leave a bruise, and Patrick would, no doubt, poke at it for longer than was necessary; he always did. Taking a long breath and closing his eyes, Patrick exhaled heavily before turning around to face Pete, exhausted in every way. 

“I’m not really in the mood for this Pete. What do you wan-” The kiss was unexpected and exactly what he knew was going to happen. Pete’s hand gripped his hip as the other slid behind his neck both pulling him close and pressing him back against the counter. Patrick didn’t fight it, he couldn’t, and his small whimper was lost against Pete’s mouth as his hand brushed over the strange feeling fuzz that covered Pete’s head, almost lost without the usual mess of greasy, slick straight dark hair to pull. 

He allowed himself that, just the one moment, all of it. He was immersed in Pete, wholly so, inside and out; surrounded by him even as he was in his veins; everything was about Pete, it always had been. Calloused fingers slipped over a stubbled jaw, ghosting over smooth skin for an instant and then it was gone. A clenched fist connected with the same jaw, one that Patrick had kissed so many times before, and Pete’s warmth was gone as he stumbled back, honey eyes wide with shock and maybe just a little bit of hurt. It would leave a bruise and Patrick was darkly pleased with that fact, even though he shouldn’t be. 

“You should go back to your wife, she’s waiting for you.” There was no disguising the tremor in his voice now and Patrick didn’t care, not now. “Goodbye, Pete.” The words echoed in the air as Patrick pulled open the door and headed back into the empty, cold hallway, walking briskly back towards the beginning of the end of everything that he had known for the last eight years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you watch 'The Death Of The Emo Haircut' when you were done. Honestly, I watched this concert as I wrote and maybe got a bit distracted here and there. Maybe. 
> 
> I can almost always be found over at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr, come say hi, ask questions, maybe fangirl with me a bit... I promise I am not all that scary!


	4. Your Dirty Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insert something witty here. Angst with a side dose of angst and a dash of poor decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seemed to take FOREVER. This is, quite possibly, my favorite song from the entire album so it was fucking HARD to write, but I hope that it made sense, in some way. This one is heavy, folks in more ways than one. 
> 
> Just a reminder, this is non-linear and covers from Vandays through Monumentour so you never know what is coming next. This is an AU so unless a real relationship is mentioned it doesn't exist. Basically, Dallon and Brendon are single. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and questions will help ease that whole mess and, as a bonus, help inspire more words. really, it is a win/win. 
> 
> As always, this has not been betaed, but SnitchesAndTalkers read over it and promised it was postable. Grammarly helped me out as well. 
> 
> Endless love and thanks to SnitchesAndTalkers, Laudanum_Cafe, Das_Verlorene_Kind and Semi_Sweet for all of the support, brainstorming and hand holding. Huge thanks to Wanderlustnostalgia and Hum My Name for their comments, Y'all make me flail EVERY SINGLE TIME. I am stupid lucky. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, kudos or comment this ridiculous and self-indulgent tale, I am forever grateful. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: 'The Kids Aren't Alright' by Fall Out Boy

March 2, 2012. 

The sound of the doorbell ringing pulled Patrick’s attention from the movie he had been half watching. It wasn’t the actual ringing that caught his attention, that was frequent enough; he had been nearly subsisting on delivery salads and noodles from his favorite Thai place for a week; he hadn’t actually left his townhouse in three days unless you counted opening the door for an eternally cheerful delivery guy leaving. Patrick didn’t. It was the hour that got him. Yes, people had shown up knocking, many of them actually. Every single one had been willfully ignored. It wasn’t as though Patrick was pretending he wasn’t home, his car was in the driveway and the lights were on. There had been music loud enough to be clearly heard by the neighbors that he knew wouldn’t care on more than one occasion he just… hadn’t wanted to see anyone. 

But now… it was, if the clock on the wall was correct, two seventeen in the morning and Patrick was really kind of involved in watching Judd Nelson play a criminal for the millionth time with the volume off and Bowie crooning on the record player but… it was just past two in the morning and his doorbell was ringing which meant there was exactly one person in the entire world that it could be, which was yet another item on the endless list of reasons why he should not move. But then again, that was also the only reason that he wanted to. 

Setting aside the remote, his phone and the scattered ephemera of the last two days, Patrick dropped the blanket he had been wrapped on, the softest one he owned that wasn’t on his bed; swirling paisley in shades of honey and amber that wasn’t a reminder of anyone specific, it was NOT, and ran a hand through his messy hair as he made his way to the front door. 

There was snow falling thickly outside, blanketing the world in white and silencing everything that would normally make a sound. It was beautiful and cold as fuck. The temperature difference as he tugged the door open fogged his glasses up almost instantly and he blinked, wrinkling his nose in frustration before yanking them off. It was cold as fuck, although the wear thin t-shirt and flannel pants did little to fight the freezing temperatures. Wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt, more as an excuse than anything else, Patrick waited until they were back in place on his nose before finally, finally looking at his late night visitor; he was right. 

Not a word was spoken as Patrick stepped back, nodding in silent invitation and his guest followed suit, closing the door just as the music clicked over to silence, because of course. 

“Trick.” There was a certain gentleness in Pete’s voice that Patrick hated, he’d hated it every fucking time he heard it for the last decade and tonight was absolutely no different; he just couldn’t handle Pete Wentz’s pity right now. He couldn’t hear another speech, deal with another apology or affirmation or fuck, anything, and so he didn’t. Finally meeting the whiskey eyes that he hadn’t seen in nearly two years, Patrick gave his head the slightest shake and reached out, sliding one hand behind Pete’s neck and using the other to grab a handful of hideous winter jacket and yank him closer. Whatever words had been on Pete’s lips died in a gasp as Patrick kissed him, nipping at his cold mouth until it opened and their tongues met. 

It was exactly like Patrick remembered it but, at the same time, better, more, everything. Any hesitation or doubts he may have had disappeared as cold hands slipped over his warm skin. He knew Pete’s hands almost better than his own, even after all this time and as infuriatingly goddamn cold as it was, the easy curve of them beneath the waistband of his pants and down over his ass. His hiss of surprise at the drastic temperature change died off into a moan as Pete pulled away, trailing wet kisses along Patrick’s jaw. Fuck. Trembling hands pushed and pulled and threw, bags and coats and all of the other ephemera of a Chicago winter scattering along the polished hardwood of the entryway. Patrick's hand slipped into Pete’s back jeans pocket, snagging his wallet, the leather buttery smooth and worn, and flipped through it in the dim light while Pete laughed, the sound earned him a glare, although it was absent of any real malice. Pete was nothing if not predictable, at least to Patrick and he grinned as he found what he was looking for. The two little foil packets were tucked in the same spot they had been for the last decade, without fail. He pondered over the smaller one and decided it wasn’t worth it and tossed the wallet on top of the rest of the rapidly growing pile of garments on his floor. 

Clenching the foil packet between his teeth, Patrick spared a glance up at Pete’s face, silhouetted in shadow and the dull blue light coming from the television. The years had been kind to him, as had fatherhood. That thought was one that was pushed away again, hard and fast, as he moved his attention to Pete’s belt. It was unbuckled and discarded with the quiet clink of metal on metal and the slick pull of leather through denim, the button, and zipper of his jeans following behind as he fell to his knees. Jeans were shoved down to ankles, catching on boots and fuck that, Patrick had exactly zero patience to deal with that mess right now. 

Plucking the packet from between his teeth, he rested it beside him for safekeeping and paused, for the briefest of moments to look up at Pete through the messy hair that hung just a little too long in his eyes. Pete was, as always, beautiful in the same way that broken glass in the morning light was; he knew, he KNEW, that it would hurt to touch but there was still that compulsion anyway, the difference being that any scars from this would be internal, hidden away in the same place as they had been for the last decade. Pete’s touch was gentle as his fingers slipped over Patrick’s cheek, tender almost, and the same emotion was reflected in his eyes as Patrick turned, ever so slightly into his hand, dropping his gaze; it was too much. 

The sweetness didn’t last, not now anyway, as Patrick leaned forward and took Pete’s half-hard dick between his lips with no preamble. There was no need to pretend; no reason to act coy or surprised. They were both adults and had done this same thing so many times that he had lost count. Pete gasped, as he always did while Patrick worked him over, alternating easy suction with sloppy licks until they were both panting, a feat which Patrick was momentarily proud of considering the dick in his mouth. Pete’s fingers were twisted tightly in his hair, tugging at his scalp as Patrick pulled back, the sound almost obscene in the unusual quiet of his house. 

Scrambling to his feet, Patrick all but pulled Pete to the couch, quite impressive considering his jeans were still around his ankles. Pete, for once in his goddamn life, didn’t talk, sitting back and watching Patrick intently as he wriggled out of his baggy pajama pants, keeping his shirt on. His own dick was almost painfully hard as he perched on Pete’s knees, smiling almost gently around the bit of foil in his mouth as he tore the small pouch open. 

The lube tasted sweet and artificial, that same chemical cherry flavor that was in cough syrup and, for the briefest of moments, Patrick was transported back in time to lazy, sticky kisses in a storm and nope, that was not happening right now. Smearing almost half of the lube over his fingers, Patrick pointedly held Pete’s gaze as he rocked and shifted, moving just enough so his fingers, two because it was always better when it hurt a little, breached his own ass, his groan muffled as he bit his lip. He didn’t make a show of it; that was more Pete’s thing, twisting and scissoring first two then three fingers until he was probably not at all as ready as he should be. 

Pete’s hands rested at his sides as Patrick slipped his fingers free with a small whimper, as though he was trying not to touch. Shifting up on his knees, he pressed a gentle kiss to the underside of Pete’s jaw, the stubble scratching his lips while he slicked up his dick with the last of the lube, the packaging falling to the floor. 

The groan as Patrick lined up and slowly lowered himself onto Pete’s cock was music, and pain and fucking home all at once. Patrick hated himself a little for it, and tucked his face against the curve of Pete’s neck as he moved, solid, warm hands tight over his hips. 

It was amazing, it always was; years of want and need and instinct. The ache of knowledge that maybe this isn’t the best idea melted away after the first few thrusts of Pete’s hips and soon, far sooner than either of them wanted to admit, the air was filled with broken moans and gasps and fucking Pete’s stomach was striped with white as Patrick collapsed against him, eyes closed and shaking as a hand slipped under the hem of his shirt to rub small circles against the small of his back. 

“That better be your clean hand.” Patrick’s voice was wrecked, and Pete laughed softly, gently and kissed Patrick’s temple. 

“I promise it is.” He wiggled the fingers on his other hand just to prove it, and they glinted wetly in the low light. Patrick shook his head, fighting the need to laugh at how very Pete the response was and dropped his head again, reveling in the moment for as long as he could. He needed to move, to clean up, to get Pete’s soft cock out of his ass but for now, in this moment, he just took what he could, breathing in deeply and letting Pete, his warmth, the salty scent of his skin beneath the cologne and chemical tang of soap, and his gentle touch wash over him. He was stuck in the best, worst ways. 

 

It wasn’t until later when Pete’s jeans and boots had been kicked off, traded for worn flannel pants, and his shirt had been unceremoniously used to wipe both the come and lube from Patrick’s ass as best as possible, that they cuddled on the couch again, draped in blankets and Molly Ringwald yelling on the TV. 

“So who was it?” Pete’s question seemed simple, but Patrick knew him far too well and he glared, sticking out his tongue. 

“None of your business.” It was a juvenile answer, yes, but it was also four o’clock in the fucking morning and they were both sleep drunk. 

“Come on, tell me. Cause goddamn, Trick. It isn’t you weren’t good before, but…” Pete let his voice trail off purposefully, the implication evident and Patrick, as he always did, caved a little. 

“Fuck you, Pete.” There was no heat behind the words, and Patrick tucked his bare feet against Pete’s calves, searching for warmth. 

“Was it someone on tour? Your guitarist, maybe. I saw you at The Viper Room, you know. Jesus Christ, it was hot. I almost came backstage but didn’t want to cause any trouble.” Pete prodded and Patrick scoffed, shaking his head. 

“No, Michael is married with children, but thank you. And I am glad you liked it.” There was no small amount of pride in Patrick’s voice, and sadness as well. Pete wasn’t an idiot and pulled him closer. 

“Hey, so am I. But really, you were fucking… I was so proud of you, Trick, really. You were captivating.” The casual proclamation should have bothered Patrick; it did not. 

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten that, thank you. I even wrote a song about it. Kind of.” He pouted against Pete’s shoulder, twisting his fingers absently in the fabric of his pants. 

“Believe me, I didn’t miss that either. Touche. I liked it though. Come on now, tell me who it was. You know you want to.” There was that tone in Pete’s voice, the same one that he had always used on stage, teasing and sincere at the same time, the one that made girls and boys alike cry eyeliner stained tears as they believed every word. “I’m not dropping this until you tell me, you know that.” 

Patrick sighed, giving in quicker than he wanted; he never could really say no to Pete, not even when he wanted to. “You are a fucking menace, Pete.”

Patrick could feel the smile of triumph against the top of his head. “Come on, tell me. Tell meeee… It had to have been somebody on tour, I know it. Was it Brendon? Please tell me it wasn’t Brendon.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete. It wasn’t Brendon, give me some credit. Plus, he was sleeping with the merch girl, so. Right band though.” 

“Right band. Fuck. Smith? No way. Was it Weekes?” Patrick tensed just slightly and Pete actually crowed in triumph. “Holy shit, his hands man. Goddamn. Do you guys still-”

“Enough, Peter.” Patrick’s cheeks were warm, more from memories than embarrassment because there wasn’t any of the latter. While he and Dallon hadn’t worked out in the end, there was a beautiful friendship from it and Patrick valued it more than he could say. 

Pete, for his part, actually took the hint. “Alright, alright. Another time, maybe. Now, you wanna talk about why you turned your phone off and haven’t answered your email in days?” The tone in his voice had shifted dramatically and Patrick frowned. That was why Pete was here, of course, but really, really he didn’t.

“Not right now. How’s Molly?” The subject change was abrupt and more than slightly painful but in the best way. He could almost feel Pete perk up at the mention of the little girl that, quite frankly, owned both of their hearts. Pete babbled until the light that peeked through the windows shifted to the pale grey of early morning and they both fell asleep, tangled in the blankets and, a bit more messily, with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be found over at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr. Come talk and let me fangirl over you for a bit, I promise I am only a little awkward.


	5. Keep You Like An Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long weekends, short shows and surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, I updated. I know, I know. I'm sorry. It was a difficult chapter to write and I am still a bit cranky with it but... I hope you like it. 
> 
> Comments, questions, and kudos make the world go round, seriously. 
> 
> This has, as always, not been betaed, although SnitchesAndTalkers was amazing and read it over for me as I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. 
> 
> I am, as always, taking some liberties because I DO WHAT I WANT, but I hope you will forgive any outright inaccuracies. 
> 
> All the love and endless thanks from the bottom of my black little heart go out to SnitchesAndTalkers, Laudanum_Cafe, Scmi-Sweet, Das_Verlorene_Kind and Hum My Name for the support and patience. They are the best. Period. End of discussion. I love them all to pieces. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this poorly updated and rather rambling tale, I am forever thankful. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: NOT UMA THURMAN. I know. Instead, we are going with 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' by Fall Out Boy. Preferably the acoustic version, because I do what I want.

April 27, 2002

Patrick was gross; stage sweaty and damp, his hair was slicked tight against his head beneath his cap and his shirt clung to his back uncomfortably. The stumble from whatever Bumblefuck club they were playing at to the van did a bit to relieve the heat, but even for late April, the night seemed almost oppressive, the air heavy and thick, pressing down on them as they were laden down with equipment. 

He wasn’t supposed to be here, none of them were really; it had taken both Pete and Joe’s best wheedling, as well as Patrick very nearly begging to get his mother to agree that he could go. It was a last minute fill-in gig from a friend of a friend in the middle of east Jesus nowhere Minneapolis but it was a show, and they had another one booked the next night on the way home. Three nights in the van wasn’t that bad, not in the grand scheme of things; it was a long weekend, bookended by two days off from school for travel just to make things a bit easier, and they were taking their time. It was the closest any of them were probably going to get to a vacation so they were enjoying it. 

The show had been killer, surprisingly. The kids and there were a lot of them, had been insane, yelling the words back at Patrick as he sang. Joe had been on as ever and Pete… well, he was Pete, screaming into the mic, hanging from the rafters and, at one point, jumping into the crowd because, well, he was Pete. That usually was all that needed to be said. 

Even with the windows down, it was still stifling in the vehicle and the radio was, once again, on the fritz. The random static that skipped from the speakers was interrupted by blasts of music that nobody seemed to recognize but that was okay. They were all keyed up on post-show adrenaline and Pete was behind the wheel, Joe in the passenger seat while John? Tim? Matthew? The borrowed drummer who Pete had produced out of nowhere sat opposite Patrick near the window. It was a good feeling, if a bit of an odd one, something Patrick was never quite sure he would get used to as he counted the white lines that raced past Pete drove the same way he did nearly everything and once you got over that initial fear of dying in a fiery explosion, the hum of the tires going just this side of too fast on the road was comforting in a strange way; familiar in a sense. So when he started slowing down in an area that was decidedly not any type of rest stop, well, the first instinct was to look for Blue lights in the rearview. Nothing there, thank fuck for small favors. The last time they had been pulled over, Pete had done some extremely questionable things to get out of that ticket. 

There was nothing reflected except for the streetlights of the tiny town they seemed to be making their way through, slower and slower by the moment. Patrick blinked, stretching to look out the windshield for a telltale plume of smoke because of course; nothing there either. The click of the blinker, more rapid than it should have been because the bulb was going out, sounded through the van and then Pete was pulling into a parking lot and coming to an easy stop in front of a yellow building, the van sputtering off. 

“Alright, everybody out. Take what matters, cause if it gets stolen, that’s on you.” With that he was gone, bounding across the near-empty lot towards the doors of… the La Quinta? Looks like it might be a decent night’s sleep after all. 

While Pete was inside doing whatever it was that he was did, Joe, Patrick and the drummer with the personality of a bagged salad unloaded and rearranged equipment and instruments, debating what could be left in the van and what should go in the room. Laden down with cases, bags and, shoulders slumping with the weight even as Pete skips out the front door. His backpack is still in the now locked van, but he really doesn’t seem to care as he reaches their ragtag group, relieving Patrick of the bass that was balanced in its case before pressing a key into Joe’s hands. 

“I couldn’t get adjoining rooms, there was some sort of a computer glitch or some shit. We’ll be in 627 if you need anything. Come on Pattycakes, I want a shower.” Pete was, as always, an almost seemingly endless rush of energy, heading towards the far elevators. Patrick shrugged, waving at Joe and Bagged Salad as they wandered down to the nearer bank watching until the doors slid closed before following after Pete. The ride was quiet save for the naggingly familiar piano ballad playing through the slightly tinny speakers; Patrick couldn’t place it and it drove him crazy as he tried, wrinkling his nose as the car ascended, the lights above the doors flicking in turn until they stopped, the doors sliding open. 

Pete, of course, didn’t hesitate, dashing down the hallway in his ridiculous, ill-fitting sneakers He paused at the end of the hall, the sound of the automatic lock clicking through the late night quiet and just smiled at Patrick, knowing and filthy and light all at once, his foot caught in the door. “Your lodgings, good Sir.” Patrick just glared, rolling his eyes as he slipped past him into the room. “Just throw your stuff anywhere.” Another glare, this time tossed half-heartedly over his shoulder and Patrick dropped his belongings, the travel cases, and equipment a bit more gently than his backpack. 

He futzed around in his bag for a moment, pulling out his small ziplock of toiletries and some pajamas, already looking forward to the shower he was going to take. That idea vanished almost instantly as Pete’s arms slipped around his waist and lips brushed gently at the back of his neck. His decidedly sweaty, gross neck. Patrick wrinkled his nose. 

“Pete, I’m disgusting, let me shower first pl-” Any protests that may have been on Patrick’s lips vanished on a soft gasp as Pete’s fingers slid to the buckle on Patrick’s belt. 

“I kind of dig you like this, Trick. All sweaty and a little bit filthy. Besides, a shower would be counterproductive at this point. I hope anyway.” There was the slightest catch in Pete’s voice, the tiniest hint of uncertainty that would have been lost on almost anyone else, but seeing as the words were spoken directly against the sticky skin of Patrick's neck, there was no way he could miss it. Then again, the fact that he knew Pete almost better than he knew himself may have had something to do with that as well. The gravity of what Pete was saying sank over Patrick like a physical presence, heavy and real; suddenly he was nervous, but in that same electric, kinetic way that he was before a show. 

Fooling around was nothing new, not really, even though it probably should have been. The first time had been behind the van, in the chilly air on some random side street after their first show; Pete had dropped to his knees and yanked on Patrick’s belt. It was sloppy, dirty and over far too quickly. As much as he had wanted things to progress from there, they hadn’t, not really. Shared handjobs and quick, messy head during stolen moments here and there… as much as it drove Patrick crazy, he craved it with every bit of his being. And now that the opportunity was before him, within reach, well… there was no way he was going to say no, not now. 

Twisting in Pete’s arms to face him, his weight shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, Patrick finally, finally met Pete’s eyes, nearly losing himself in the whiskey depths for a moment, despite the nearly painful press of his dick against his jeans. “Are you sure? I mean you want.. me? “ His goddamn voice, the reason they were in this situation in the first place, cracked like it hadn’t in years, and heat flooded Patrick’s cheeks as Pete’s chuckle, warm and sweet and so very Pete, drifted to his ears. 

“More than anything, Trick. I’ve always said you were my golden boy, I meant it, you know? You mean more to me than you probably should.” There was a certain aspect of honesty in everything that Pete said, even if he was lying, but in this relatively shitty hotel room, at some unholy hour, filthy and turned on, Patrick had never heard anything closer to the truth. He didn’t answer, not with words anyway, choosing instead to pull Pete down into a kiss, all wet tongues, and tugging hands until they both fell onto the single clean bed in a pile of tangled limbs and desperate gasps as hands tugged and pulled, sweat-sticky clothes were thrown aside. Patrick’s shirt, the Guys Gone Wild one that he had somehow ended up with, was tossed away with such excitement that it took the blocky hotel clock with it, crashing to the floor with an awkward beep. 

“I want- can I face you?” There was something nearing fear sliding into Patrick’s words, not trepidation in the slightest, but a certain unknowing that he knew, or at least hoped, was normal. Pete grinned, his ridiculous white teeth nearly glowing in the dim yellow light from the lamp and nodded, dropping a kiss to the very tip of Patrick’s nose. 

“Of course, Baby. I’ve got you, okay? I promise.” There was that honesty again, a gentleness that seemed almost incongruous with THE Pete Wentz that Patrick nearly laughed. But then again, this was just them, it wasn’t the band; there was no audience, no show, nothing. Just him and Pete. 

As much as Patrick had read up on this, and watched what he could from the very limited items that he had been able to get his hands on, combined with inexperienced fumblings in the dark, he was still nervous, although as prepared as he could be. It was awkward and slippery with too much lube and Pete seemed almost as nervous as he was, careful almost to a fault, as though Patrick was something delicate and fragile. 

 

But in the end, after everything, as they lay on an ugly hotel bedspread in the middle of East Jesus nowhere, sweat-slick and lube stick; tangled up in an undignified mess as they both came down from their highs and struggled to regulate gasped breaths and settle spinning heads, that just felt right despite the ache. Patrick felt it, that smile that he had grown to love despite his original protests, against his neck, as his eyes grew heavy despite a tiny voice in the back of his saying that he needed a shower, for fuck’s sake, when he heard an actual voice, tender and almost distant with impending sleep. 

“Happy birthday, Trick.” Patrick smiled sleepily as his eyes drifted closed almost against his will as he pressed as close to Pete as possible while he drifted off that he even realized what day it was. Best. Birthday. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet over on Tumblr. I am always there and I LOVE LOVE LOVE to chat. I promise I'm not that scary.


	6. The Sweetness Never Lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> endings, revelations and accidents. Or, another track, another tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi! I'm still alive. I know, it is a shock to me too. Things have been a little nuts and I lost my mind and my muse for a while but they showed up in the strangest place today. 
> 
> I had a list of other things that I was going to write before this but I'm not gonna fight inspiration when it strikes. 
> 
> As always, this has not been beta read, all mistakes are mine and mine alone. But special love to Laudanum_Cafe for reading this over for me. 
> 
> I am eternally thankful to my beloved Birb Pack for their unending support, handholding and the all-around inspiration and love always, even when I am being ridiculous. 
> 
> Thank you endlessly for taking the time to read, comment and kudos, I am eternally grateful for the gift of your time and I hope you enjoy this next installment. 
> 
> Also, in case you were wondering, during the prank wars on the last showbof the save Rock and Roll tour, there was a moment where Dallon does, in fact, smack Patrick's ass... it was glorious, and also the inspuration for that pairing. There are several videos of it on youtube and I highly recommend watching. 
> 
> Aural Pleasure: 'Jet Pack Blues' by Fall Out Boy

September 29, 2013

There was something almost obscenely surreal about the last show of a tour; The energy was different than anything else; Patrick couldn’t even think of anything that could compare, save for the first show of a tour, and that was more of an opposite on the scale, of anything. The sense of not quite dated nostalgia and a bittersweet ending was far more familiar than he cared to admit, the memories forever flickering in the back of his mind were still fresh but that impending, almost bittersweet knowledge that they would soon start to fade was always hanging just out of reach. There were certain ones, however, that he knew would never forget, even if the details were fuzzy; the backgrounds may change, but the sounds bouncing off the walls, blurry reflections in mirrors and Jesus Christ, the way Pete felt… he hadn’t ever forgotten that. Ever, even though it had been years since touring with Pete.

Tonight did not prove to be any different. The routine was the same as always, but there was something different; more desperate, almost hungrier behind grasping hands and nipping teeth. Patrick knew he would have bruises, he reveled in that fact actually; they made him proud, in a filthy way and being able to press against the tender skin for days afterward was a perverse joy that he only allowed himself on rare occasions. It wasn’t until they were tangled on the floor, Pete’s back against the shining, bright white tiles and Patrick resting in his lap, a sweaty, achy mess, that the reason why started niggling in the back of his mind. Patrick didn’t mind possessiveness, not in the slightest, although it was really fucking strange, especially considering Pete and his unconventional situation. The thought alone made him snort with laughter, a cold, distant sound that seemed to echo off of the walls that their combined cries and moans had bounced off only minutes before, and his own lyrics flashed through his mind. 

“What’s wrong?” Pete’s voice was quiet, his breath warm against the sweat-slick skin of Patrick’s neck, even as his hand stroked lazily along his back. There was no small amount of concern there, and curiosity too. Pete always was one for wanting to know everything. Nosy asshole. 

“How much does that ridiculous prank earlier have to do with your sudden need to mark me like you are a dog and I am a hydrant?” There was humor behind Patrick’s words, dry as they were; his voice was trashed. There were probably about ninety-seven things that he should have done after the show, number one drinking more fucking water, and maybe some tea, but Pete had other ideas and Patrick had never been able to say no to him. It was a fault, and he knew it. The chuckle against his neck was warm and rich, one of Pete’s rare real laughs. They were like his smiles; when they were genuine, Patrick could swear that there was not a damn thing wrong in the world. He was seeing them less and less these days.

“You caught that, huh?” Not even a hint of shame, absolutely none; quite the opposite, actually. That was his Pete. No, not his Pete, never his Pete. Lauren’s Pete. The gold band around Pete’s finger, cold even now as it rested against Patrick’s thigh, was a constant reminder of that. 

“Of course I did, a little credit please.” 

“Your ass isn’t his to touch.” The explanation was simple and soft, the humor went out of it quickly and replaced with an uncharacteristic seriousness that was especially sobering. Patrick hated it and squirmed away, filing the last, stolen moments away until next time, even if he told himself there wouldn’t be a next time. 

“My ass isn’t yours to worry about.” And there it was, the truth that they always danced around, laid out cold and quiet. It hung in the air heavy and thick between them and Patrick couldn’t look at Pete as he wriggled out of his arms to find his pants. 

“Patrick, that’s not-”

“No. Not now, okay? Just… not tonight. Please.” The last word was broken and Patrick kept his head down as he squirmed into his jeans, fastening the button and ignoring the salt sting of tears as he fished for his glasses and hat on the counter, avoiding Pete until he was shoving his feet back in his shoes and adjusting the laces. He felt sticky and itchy, sweat and lube combining to cling to his skin in a physical manifestation of the thoughts that went unspoken time and again. Patrick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking, because he knew if he let those words out, there would be no taking them back, going over scenarios and possibilities in his head as he washed his hands and face, a few traitorous tears slipping out with the water he splashed in his eyes. It wasn’t new, any of it, but there was something approaching fear about things now, more so than usual, whether it was the end of the tour or not, he didn’t know. Pete was not bothering to hide his emotions, as per usual; he very literally, wore his heart on his sleeve although how it was possible to bang around while putting on clothes, Patrick had no clue. 

The air was thick with a tension that was not new; it had had years to grow and shift; Patrick carried it with him more often than not and they weight was like a chain around his neck in the heaviest moments; he hated it. Pete’s footsteps echoed heavily through the room as he headed towards the door, flipping the lock and nearly yanking it open just as Patrick finally spoke, crossing the space between them before the words were even out of his mouth.

“Pete, please?” The same phrase that had been gasped not even ten minutes ago sounded like a foreign language in comparison. His hand rested on a cotton covered shoulder and he could feel the tension there, even before Pete turned and Patrick’s heart sank. Hurt was written all over Pete’s face, and Patrick had caused it. Yes, it was a mutual cause, but Patrick knew when he was hitting below the belt. 

“I’m sorry.” His apology was a whisper as he leaned in close, the musky scent of sweat, sex and cologne were almost heady and familiar, but everything fell away as he met Pete’s lips in a kiss. It was sweet, and almost pleading, a far cry from the desperate ones earlier; an apology and a promise wrapped up in a chaste package. Pete’s hand lingered, for the briefest of moments, against his cheek before he pulled away, leaning down just slightly to rest his forehead against Patrick’s. He was too close to see clearly through smudged glasses, but the hurt, while still present in Pete’s eyes, had faded a bit, and there was a familiar fondness replacing it that Patrick loved. 

“Me too.” The words were quiet, barely a whisper and they spoke volumes; a balm to Patrick’s troubled soul, even if just for a moment. It would do, for now, it would have to because as soon as they were both outside the door, everything went back to normal for who knows how long. 

“I know.” Patrick managed a half smile, reflecting the one that played on Pete’s lips and nodded, slipping his hand down to Pete’s and squeezing gently. “I know. Go, I’ll be right there.” There weren’t any more words spoken as Pete slipped out the door, with Patrick stepping back to let the door close, counting footfalls under his breath until the door closed and blocked them out and then counted to fifty for good measure before leaving the bathroom himself, head down. It was a practiced maneuver, honed over years of clandestine moments and although it made Patrick feel a little sick with nerves, it was absolutely what he had chosen. It would be over for a little while soon anyway, the same as many things when a tour wrapped up. 

Patrick had made this same trek more times than he could count over the years, and he kept his head down and his eyes on his shoes as moments flashed through his mind, more good than not, but all tinged with the same slight sadness. It wasn’t until he crashed into a very warm body that he realized that he should have been paying more attention, and once familiar hands rested on his shoulders and he met knowing blue eyes that he realized just how careless he had been. Every possible explanation vanished and he was left floundering, his mouth dropped open and words stuck, thick and awful in his throat as he stuttered and tripped over them in a useless attempt at a lie. Patrick was a horrible liar. 

“It’s not- I mean- you didn’t- Dallon, it’s... fuck.” It ended up being an admission and denial all at once, at least Patrick had hoped. Had he run into literally anyone else in the entire fucking world, he would have been in the clear but Dallon, well… he’d seen first hand the color on Patrick’s cheeks after sex; knew the slightly stilted gait and mussed hair that came with his getting fucked. He’d been the cause of it more than once, one of the few other than Pete that had, and Dallon was very aware of that fact. 

“P.” It was no more than a letter. Dallon’s voice was soft, as was his gaze, his hands still resting gently on Patrick’s shoulders as the obvious realization of what was happening slowly dawned on both of them. Panic rose, thick and vile in his throat, churning in his stomach as those same goddamn tears stung his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” The words were not what he had expected, ever, and the kindness behind them even less so. And yet? There it was. There was no judgment, no anger, nothing but a sad smile a few whispered words. That was all it took; a familiar face and a few words in a random hallway in Tampa and Patrick Stump fell apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can always be found over at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr if you want to chat or fangirl. I promise I'm not all that bad!


	7. Don't Stop Till Your Heart Goes Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earth Day and Earth-shaking news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, just so you know. I know, two updates in a week, I am shocked myself. 
> 
> This has not, as per usual, been betaed because that is how I roll. Laudanum_Cafe, in her infinite amazingness, did read it over for me. And she also screamed at me, so... again, sorry. I love you to pieces, Omega Twin. 
> 
> Thank you endlessly and from the bottom of my heart to the Beautiful Birb Pack, SnitchesAndTalkers, Laudanum_Cafe, Semi_Sweet, Flames_And_Jade, The_Chaotic_Panda and Das_Verlorene_Kind for the constant support, encouragement and all around joy Y'all bring, even without maybe knowing it. You are the best cheerleaders and friends a girl could ever hope for. 
> 
> All of the love and endless amounts of baked goods and tissues to all of you who have been reading this and leaving comments and kudos, I can't even begin to tell you how much they mean to me. Once again, I'm sorry for this. Please don't hate me. 
> 
> Aural Pleasure: 'Novocaine' by Fall Out Boy

April 15, 2010

It was a gorgeous day and Patrick was petrified. Not of the crowds, not of performing, nothing like that. At this point in his life, he had spent more of his life on a stage than off, it was natural as breathing; he needed it. It was just the scenery that had changed, the faces around him. Then again, that was the nature of music; bands shifted and people left. Granted, going from Madison Square Garden to playing in bars in the span of six months was kind of a jolt, it wasn’t bad, not at all. He’d been nervous before the show in Austin but it had felt almost like coming home again instead of restarting; the last thing he considered it was a setback. 

The audience today was massive, the largest he had seen since Fall Out Boy and he was playing with The Roots which still kind of blew his mind a little bit. Underneath it all, despite the magazine covers and award shows, beneath the fancy clothes and past the red carpets, Patrick was a nerdy little guy from Chicago who loved music, that was who he was, at his core. It was where his heart was. That idea alone, and any implications that may have been woven into it were not lost on him in the slightest and, not for the first time, he pushed those thoughts aside, back into the corners of his mind, shutting them under lock and key for however long he needed to. There were more important things at hand. He had to perform, and he would. This was, above all things, fun. 

It was stunning out, blue skies and bright, warm sun peeking through fluffy white clouds and a sea of people who were gathered for both music and a good cause. Realistically, he should have been focused and he played it off fairly well; compartmentalizing had always been a strong suit with one very specific exception. That exception, that weakness perhaps, had haunted him over the last six months. They had spoken briefly, stilted business meetings and perfunctory goodbyes and then there was silence. Nothing for nearly six months and then this morning while he was blearily sipping a cup of hotel coffee in some ridiculous place in Washington DC of all places, his phone had chirped. Patrick had glanced at it briefly mid-sip, fully expecting a message from his mother or manager, maybe Joe. He was never so wrong. It was something of a miracle that he hadn’t choked on his coffee and if his hands were shaking as he set his mug down and picked up his phone, well, nobody had to know. 

‘Prentice Women’s. Will you come when you can?’ Two lines that broke months of silence and managed to turn his entire world upside down in an instant. It was the proper spelling and grammar that really hit home how important this was and Patrick hesitated only briefly before responding, more to get his wits about him than anything. It was a quick response because, well what else could it be? 

‘Of course I will. I’m in D.C. but I leave after the show. Will you keep me posted?’. His coffee was forgotten as he hit send, watching intently as the message was delivered and then just staring at the screen until the next one popped up. 

‘Thank you, Trick. I will. And good luck.’ It was silly how much a few little lines meant and one more quick reply from Patrick, ‘Thank you. Congratulations to you and Lauren both. See you soon.’, something stupid to tide him over until he could properly panic a little. At least he would be distracted. His phone chimed once again, this time signaling the need for him to get moving and Patrick drained his coffee cup, far faster than he liked, traded his glasses for the Ray-Bans in his bag and headed out into the warm D.C. spring to wait for his car. 

The show went wonderfully; the crowd was receptive and people were kind, as was general vibe for things like this, but Patrick was preoccupied. It looked like nervousness, of that he was sure, and he let it be played off as such because what else could he do? Small talk had never really been easy for him before and when his mind was literally seven-hundred miles away, exactly where it shouldn’t have been, it was even worse. It was easy to switch it off to perform, that had never been a problem, not really, but when he wasn’t on, well that was another story entirely. When he was alone, be it in a cab, an airport lounge or sitting in as much comfort as could be afforded on a tin can hurtling through the air, well… the panic was almost visceral, curling up and settling in his stomach like lead. It whispered through his mind and sparked in his veins making him antsy and uncomfortable for the duration of the flight, shifting to blatant anxiety once he had cleared security and was in a cab headed for the hospital. He fidgeted; picking at his jeans, playing with his phone or tugging the straps of his backpack just for something to do so he didn’t just explode. And then the car stopped and everything went kind of numb. 

It was approaching dusk as Patrick stepped out of the car, the sun just starting to dip down below the city skyline just barely painting the sky with bright oranges and pinks and reflecting off of the shining windows of the building ahead of him as a few birds sang in the freshly budded branches of the trees lining the walk towards the main entrance. Spring in Chicago was lovely, one of his favorite times of the year, but it seemed almost strangely gray past the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Then again, maybe Patrick was just protecting. 

The automatic doors slid open with a whir, spilling a blast of artificially cold air out over him. Patrick reached to wrap his hoodie tighter around him and then paused, realizing that it was still shoved in the backpack that was slung over his shoulder; he hadn’t bothered to change once he had gotten done performing, just headed straight to the airport. It was easier that way. He settled for pulling the sleeves of his cardigan down over his hands instead, twisting his fingers in the dark fabric. Pete had texted while he had been in the air, some ridiculously long directions about how to get to the room and where to check in; Patrick hadn’t replied. Pausing at the directory, he quickly made note of where he was going and checked it against the text message still up on his phone as he worked out exactly where he was headed.

He kept his head down as he navigated the hallways, his shoes squeaking on the shining linoleum and hands full with gift shop purchases, pointedly trying to ignore the cold, antiseptic scent that hung in the air. Every hospital he had ever been in smelled the same; sterile and cold, with what he could only describe as both desperation and hope lingering in the background. He took a left past the chapel, ignoring the lyrics that popped into his head unbidden and began to work through the maze of sage colored walls and carefully printed signs before finally stopping at a desk beside what looked like a locked door. 

A woman in a powder blue scrub top to sat behind it, the consistent clacking of her fingers on the keyboard that sat in front of her very nearly driving Patrick crazy. Thankfully for his sanity, she finished quickly and turned her attention to him with a bright smile. 

“Good afternoon, patient name?” It was a simple question, at least it should be, but Patrick stumbled over it anyway, he knew Lauren’s maiden name, but for some reason, it was slipping his mind and with his hands full he couldn’t exactly get his phone. 

“Wentz.” It was at least worth a shot but judging by the woman behind the desk’s expression, it was not the right answer. 

“I’m sorry we don’t have anyone by that name.” There was just a bit of an edge to her voice, a coldness that had crept in at what she no doubt saw as someone trying to do something that they absolutely were not meant to be doing. 

“Ahh… Lindsay! Lauren Lindsay.” The name came to him in a flash as he caught sight of the woman behind the desk’s name tag, almost identical to the one he had seen Lauren wear on more nights than he could count. Brooke Allen, of the blue scrubs and amazing typing speed, seemed placated if only for a moment and Patrick knew he had been right. 

“Can I get your name please?” Another few clicks to pull up a list of some sort no doubt had Patrick juggling the flowers and gift bags in his hands, his fingers starting to go just the slightest bit numb. 

“Patrick Stump.” Patrick could see the moment that realization dawned on the woman and watched with an almost amused expression as her blue eyes went just slightly wide as she put the pieces together. 

“Ah, okay, good. Thank you, Mr. Stump. Room 427.” With that, a buzzer sounded and the door in front of him slid open. 

“Thank you very much.” Never one to be anything but polite, Patrick ducked into the ward proper, blinking behind the sunglasses that he had yet to remove. Once he got to the room. 

419… 421… 423...425… 427. The door was closed, but the small sign on the handle said to come in, although Patrick thought maybe he shouldn’t; what if he was interrupting? Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he weighed the options for what felt like an eternity; in reality, it was maybe a minute although when you are facing off against an inanimate object, time stretched. In the end, he didn’t have to make a decision at all. 

“Excuse me, Sir.” A cheery voice rang out from behind him, accompanied by the sound of wheels just barely squeaking along a slick floor. Patrick nearly jumped back to let the woman pass. She was short, with black hair pulled back in a tight braid and a kind smile, although it was the clear bassinet that was filled with pink fuzzy blankets that he really registered. “You can come in you know.” It was a conspiratorial whisper, as though this was a sight that she dealt with every day. Maybe it was, Patrick didn’t know her life. He just nodded, following a few steps behind as she entered and lingered in the doorway a moment, giving the small family time to get settled, shifting his weight from foot to foot and keeping his eyes on his shoes until the nurse left, taking all of the shuffling and chatter with her and leaving a silence behind that screamed, echoing in Patrick’s ears louder than anything. 

“Patrick, you made it. Please, come sit down, you must be exhausted.” Lauren’s voice was sweet, so sweet, as always, and she was far kinder than Patrick deserved, although she was hopefully oblivious to that fact. He hoped it wasn’t just the meds talking. Walking into the room, Patrick forced a smile which he truly hoped wasn’t noticed. He hadn’t seen Pete since October, and Lauren for even longer, it almost seemed like they hadn’t changed a day, except for Lauren’s face being slightly rounder, softer almost. She was glowing and Patrick hated her for the tiniest fraction of a second. Fighting with his bitterness was not something that he enjoyed, but he was aware of himself enough to know why he felt the way he did and he would deal with that later. Setting the vase of flowers he had picked up down on a small spot on the window ledge that already looked more like a florists display than anything, he eased it back as far as he could although it almost disappeared amongst the larger, far fancier arrangements. 

Still weighed down with gift bags, Patrick turned to Pete and held them out awkwardly, weighing his words as though he would say something incriminating if he didn’t consider every word. “It’s not much, but-” He couldn’t finish his sentence, no matter how much he wanted to but they were stolen, lost as Pete pulled him into a warm embrace. It was comfort and familiarity and Jesus Christ did Patrick miss this. He let himself almost fall against Pete, drowning in him. Somehow, he was exactly the same; the scent of the floral fabric softener that Patrick knew Pete loved, despite insisting that it was Lauren’s choice, clung to the soft cotton of his shirts, mingling with the chemical tang of some ridiculous cologne that was either absurdly expensive or stupidly cheap and, beneath all of the extraneous things, he could smell Pete, the salt of his skin and sharp sweetness of cinnamon gum that had been the same since Patrick had been sixteen years old. 

He returned the embrace, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments behind his sunglasses. Despite the protection, he had never been happier to have his back to Lauren; he always had a fear that somehow, no matter how careful they were, some movement, no matter how innocent, would suddenly set off alarm bells, and give them both away. Was there a universal tell for ‘I’m in love with your husband and we have been fucking around for the better part of the last decade”? He may never know but if the embrace lingered just a moment too long, if Pete’s hand may have brushed Patrick’s fingers as they pulled away, Patrick wouldn’t tell. 

“Sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable. It’s good to see you.” Pete wasn’t fidgety, per se, but he did tug his hands through his hair as he gestured to the chair behind Patrick, next to Laren’s bed as he settled on the edge, his jeans a dark contrast to the snowy white blankets. Not one to argue, Patrick complied, dropping his bag to the floor and finally switching his glasses over, blinking slightly at the lights that seemed a little too bright. 

“You did wonderfully today, Patrick. You should be very proud.” Lauren was so kind, and she spoke with a soft smile that broke Patrick’s heart a little bit it was so earnest. 

“It was nothing, really, but thank you. Congratulations, both of you.” As much as Patrick wanted to hate both of them, he couldn’t, not ever, not really. He could, however, hate himself. Self-loathing was always something that had run deep in his bones, but he would worry about that later. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, but the plane was delayed for a bit and-”

“Nothing to apologize for Patrick, I promise. We are just both glad to see you. It’s been far too long.” There was so much that was unspoken in those few sentences, more than Lauren could possibly know, that it was almost mind-boggling, but now was not the time. Pete, almost always in perpetual motion glanced at his wife, the woman who had just had his child, and a whole conversation seemed to pass between them with little more than a nod. He was up in a flash, crossing to the clear bassinet and carefully returning to his spot with an awed expression and an armful of pink fluff that he held with more delicate care and reverence than Patrick had ever seen coming from him. 

“Would you like to hold her?” The question was gentle as always, and Lauren was almost glowing as she turned her attention back to Patrick. 

“I-I’d love to.” As much as he hated himself, there was no possible way he could say no, especially as Pete carefully rested the pink wrapped bundle in his arms with a blinding grin; he was radiating pride and Jesus Christ he was so happy, it was written on his face even as he sat back down and laced his fingers with Lauren’s. Patrick couldn’t bring himself to look, instead focusing on the almost frighteningly tiny human that was cradled in his arms. She was so small he was worried she would break, and her tiny face as she opened her eyes, exactly like her father’s, was possibly the most beautiful thing Patrick had ever seen, and he didn’t shy away from saying as much. 

“She’s perfect.” There was more awe in his voice than he could have ever thought possible, and he had never spoken truer words. Despite the redness that stained her face, the little girl in his arms had her mother’s fair skin and somehow, although Patrick would never know exactly how, she looked like her father, even though all babies looked mostly the same at this age. 

“Thank you, Trick.” The pride in Pete’s voice was evident; he almost radiated it and there was no way Patrick would hold that against him, everything else be damned. He had earned that, at least at this moment. 

“Of course. What’s her name?” It hadn’t slipped Patrick’s attention that he didn’t know, but then again it had been a strange day all around. Pete and Lauren exchanged a knowing look, and Lauren gave a small nod, the movement causing a lock of her red hair to fall down in her face, immediately pushed back carefully behind her ear by Pete’s fingers. It was an intimate moment, more so than many Patrick had witnessed, and he fought against the pang of jealousy that blossomed, hot and sick in his chest. He had to look away, turning his attention back to the little girl in his arms. He had held a lot of babies, between Kevin and Megan he had four nieces and nephews, but this was different; he wasn’t sure how exactly, but it was. 

“Molly. Molly Vaughn Wentz.” There was a moment of near disconnect as Patrick actually processed Pete’s unusually quiet words, blinking back both shock and a strange, possibly misplaced, sense of pride before looking back and forth between Pete, Lauren, and Molly. He would deny it to anyone who ever asked, but both the salt-sting of tears in his eyes and the dull rush of affection that bloomed in his chest were more than Patrick could have imagined. Lauren looked overjoyed, Pete looked almost nervous and Molly just blinked owlishly at him and made the cutest noise he had ever heard. 

“That’s- I- wow. Really?” Patrick sounded astonished, even to himself which, well, he was, and he felt his face warm under the pair of expectant gazes. Lauren laughed quietly and nodded. 

“Well, we wanted to name her after her Godfather, if you wanted. If not, that’s okay too, it won’t change anything.” There was something approaching uncertainty in Lauren’s voice, and it seemed out of place, so very wrong during what should have been something amazingly special. Patrick looked back up from Molly to smile at first her and then Pete, the reflex almost automatic as he nodded. 

“I’d be honored, truly. I- I’m not sure what else to say. Thank you.” His voice broke, just a bit on the last word and Lauren burst into tears, despite her smile. Patrick could just barely hear her mutter something about hormones as Pete pulled her into his side and dropped a gentle kiss to the top of her head. If his eyes didn’t leave Patrick’s well, it didn’t go unnoticed. As for those tears in his own eyes, bitter and misplaced, because he truly was happy for both Pete and Lauren, the only one who saw those was Molly, and she seemed like she could probably keep a secret.


	8. In Between Being Young And Being Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I get literal and play with the timeline because I do what I want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I did a thing and I hope you like it. 
> 
> This chapter was very specifically created with SnitchesAndTalkers and Laudanum_Cafe in mind because, well, I love them to death and I know how they feel about FUTCT Patrick. I hope I can do you both proud, in some little way. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and questions literally make the world go round for authors. Press those little buttons. 
> 
> This has not been betaed but Laudanum_Cafe, SnitchesAndTalkers, and Das_verlorene_Kind have all looked over various pieces of it during the drawn-out creation. Any mistakes are all mine. 
> 
> I played with canon for this, just a little. I know Patrick played drums for My Chem at the last show of the tour but, well, that didn't work for me so I messed with it. @ me. 
> 
> Eternal thanks and love to Laudanum_Cafe, SnitchesAndTalkers, Semi-Sweet, Das_Verlorene_Kind and Folie_ aplusieurs for all the support, handholding and general amazingness. Go check their work out, I promise this hot mess will wait. Go.   
> Thank you to everyone that has been reading indulgent little tale when you could be doing anything else, literally. That means the world and I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: 'Fourth Of July' by Fall Out Boy, the live version if you can. Trust me.

July 4, 2005

Patrick was drunk; giggly, head-swimmingly, beautifully drunk. Alcohol ran through his veins alongside the adrenaline from performing and dulled the slight ache in his palms, the skin unaccustomed to drumming for far, far too long. It had been an off the cuff suggestion, mentioned almost to casually for him to remember. He had been sitting on the My Chem bus one evening after a show and, having gotten equally bored and a bit sick at watching Pete and Mikey do...whatever it was that Pete and MikeyWay did, Pete had sworn it was nothing and Patrick believed him, mostly because MikeyWay had a girlfriend that he was blatantly head over heels for, he’d picked up what appeared to be a hastily discarded drumstick and twirled it between his fingers, his attention focused on the wood. The action hadn’t escaped Gerard’s attention, the older man now sober and clear-eyed more than almost anyone else around save for Andy and Ray Toro.

Somehow, and Patrick really didn’t care how, that absent twitch had lead to an offer of playing with them, Bob grunting an agreement, good-natured and distractedly at the same time, without ever looking up from the game that it seemed Frank was kicking his ass at, and not hiding any of his unabashed glee at winning. 

The inevitable panic at drumming, something he had always loved and just never got to do had been soothed by Gerard’s insistent and calming words, to say nothing the general buoyancy of the day. It had been fun even if it wasn’t technically perfect. That was what mattered, right? And that energy carried on as the night got darker and the crowds funneled out. It was hot but not stifling, and a cool breeze ruffled through the trees as shapes, long since indistinguishable in the darkness, dashed around yelling and laughing, visible only by the sparklers that they carried. There were supposed to be fireworks at some point, although it was far beyond Patrick’s very limited brain function at this point to remember when. 

Sprawled gracelessly in a folding chair with a solo cup of something of Frank’s creation, Patrick was loose and happy, although entirely unfocused. His attention bounced between Gerard speaking, Frank setting off bottle rockets and Pete and MikeyWay leaning in close, blond head bent towards a dark one and words far too quiet to drift to his slightly ringing ears. 

“You know it isn’t what it looks like, right?” Gerard’s voice was quiet, gentle even, and startlingly close. Patrick tried to play it cool; he did not succeed, jumping and splashing the sticky, slightly warm beverage from his ridiculous solo cup all over his hand and stuttering, tripping over his tongue like a toddler for a moment. 

“I didn’t- I mean- I don’t know what you are talking about.” He had never been a good liar, and that certainly hadn’t changed with time. Gerard laughed, the sound high and surprisingly sweet in the semi-dark, especially coming from the pale skinned and dark haired frontman. We all had roles to play. He didn’t buy it, obviously, smiling and raising his glass in a silent toast, the diet coke gleaming a strange amber in the firelight. He was a strange ranger, of that there was no doubt, but there was something welcoming about Gerard and Patrick, drunk and sappy was thankful for his presence and rested a head on his shoulder. He did not smell good, sweat and the bitter tang of cigarettes blending with an undercurrent of coffee and something that Patrick really didn’t want to think about right now. Then again, at this point in the tour, everyone was pretty goddamn gross, himself included. He was close and warm and he cared and that was, honestly, all that Patrick cared about. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a horrible liar, Patrick?” Goddamn Gerard and his sobriety. Patrick just snorted and took a sloppy sip of his drink, stealing another glance at Pete and MikeyWay, still deep in conversation. “It isn’t that you can’t lie, but your eyes give you away, every time. Don’t worry, it isn’t obvious. Not to everyone anyway.” There was something approaching wistfulness in his tone, a near longing that sparked Patrick’s fuzzy mind into overdrive as he sat up, looking through smudged lenses at Gerard as he looked away from his brother and friend. 

“Do you think that-” The carefully planned, although still slightly slurred words were cut off by a bounding, very drunk Frank as he wrigged himself between them, one arm over Gerard’s shoulder and the other on Patrick’s, the blue-grey smoke from his cigarette drifting into Patrick’s face. 

“STUMP! Don’t believe a word Gee says, okay? I mean, he knows his shit but he knows shit too.” It was possible, just maybe, that Frank was drunker than he was, gesturing emphatically with his hands as he spoke, sloshing whatever alcohol heavy concoction that was in his cup all over Patrick. Frank’s drink, of course, was not warm. Sticky and spiked with ice, it cascaded down Patrick’s shirt and into his lap in a very cold, very wet puddle. The tattooed man giggled, actually giggled, as Patrick yelped and rose to clumsy feet as ice and alcohol fell on his shoes because of course. Frank and Gerard both dissolved into laughter, and Patrick tried to be mad, but he couldn’t; he was just cold. Instead, because at some point during the night he had turned into a teenage girl, Patrick grabbed Frank’s cigarette and took a long drag before turning on a very soggy heel and heading away from the small crowd and back towards the bus on shaking legs, his cheeks burning more with embarrassment than anger as he ground the cigarette out beneath the wet sole of his sneaker. His lungs still burned from the nicotine and he was shilled and sticky despite the warm night air as he stepped on the bus, leaning back against the door once it was closed behind him. 

The silence was almost overpowering and combined with the air conditioning that was just this side of too cold, it was like he was an entirely different world, despite the soft echoes of shouts and raucous laughter that somehow managed to drift in from outside; it was a strange kind of solace in the middle of a totally manufactured chaos. 

 

He stepped gingerly towards the back room, kicking off his wet shoes and throwing sticky shirts away as he paused by his bunk only quick enough to grab his bag of nearly clean clothes. Normally, Patrick would just dress in his bunk but the combination of the sticky alcohol that he was covered with and the amount running through his veins, well, even if he was drunk, he wasn’t stupid enough to try that. 

It wasn’t until he was tugging at his belt that he heard the door open and slam shut a bit harder than necessary. The footsteps that followed afterward through the bus were familiar, too loud to be Joe’s and too drunk to be Andy’s. Patrick steeled his spine as he heard Pete’s voice, far closer than it should have been. 

“You okay, Trick?” The question was easy and, at the same time, as loaded as could be. Patrick nodded absently as he looked at the door. His glasses were gone, set carefully on the table before he had begun stripping, and Pete was blurry, fuzzy in a way that couldn’t be entirely chalked up to the alcohol. 

“Frank.” Very little more explanation was needed as Pete laughed knowingly, his head bobbing in a nod while he slid the door closed behind him. Patrick was suddenly warmer than he should be, and his clumsy fingers on his belt were batted away easily as Pete slipped the leather easily through the loops and tossed it away. 

“I was worried when you left. You know it’s not… MikeyWay is just… we’re friends.” Pete’s voice was clear and close, his warm breath brushing against Patrick’s cheek, all cinnamon gum, sweet cola and smoke. 

“You don’t have to lie.” Patrick felt small and soft as he wrapped his arms around his stomach, pulling into himself and dropping his head to rest on Pete’s bare shoulder, his shirt gone who the hell knew. Pete tended to err on the side of exhibitionism on a good day and Patrick had stopped asking a long time ago. 

“I wouldn’t, Trick, not to you.” The sincerity was heartbreaking and almost earnest, honest in a way that most people wouldn’t ever expect from The Pete Wentz and Patrick couldn’t help but smile as Pete pulled him close, lips dancing over the top of his head even as deft fingers popped the button on his jeans and slipped past the waistband of stretched out boxers in a tease that drew a small whimper from Patrick, just like it always did. 

“Pete…” It was a question and permission at the same time and Patrick felt Pete’s smile even if he couldn’t see it, pressed against the top of his head, exactly what he wanted and everything he hadn’t known he had needed. Promises were whispered and names tangled in between gasps for air as hands wandered and kisses exchanged like breathing, sparks of need and something more, real and always, ignited in Patrick’s blood and he ignored it, losing himself in the feel of Pete and the muffled sound of fireworks that went off what felt like far too soon outside their filthy, makeshift sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can almost always be found at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet over on Tumblr. Come and say hi, I promise I will only fangirl for a little bit.


	9. You Can Get What You Want But It's Never Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> milkshakes and birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! I'm so sorry about the delay, I started a new job this week and it is a bit crazy trying to get everything juggled correctly. BUT! I did this, so that is something. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round, seriously. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd, but Laudanum_Cafe assured me it didn't suck, so. 
> 
> Endless love and thanks to The Birb pack for the unending love, support, and handholding. I am not worthy, Y'all. At all. But I love you to the ends of the earth. 
> 
> Aural Pleasure: 'Favorite Record' by Fall Out Boy

April 14th, 2014

There was something almost unsettling about L.A. in the spring, although Patrick couldn’t put his finger on what exactly that was. It was too sunny, too warm, too green, too… everything. That slight bitter bite in the night air was missing, everything was in bloom what felt like way too early. It wasn’t Chicago. If he was honest with himself, he knew very well that was exactly the problem. No place was Chicago and, by definition, no place was home. But then again, who said that home was a place? He had known for longer than he cared to admit, that sometimes home was more than four walls and a roof, more than a house. Sometimes, home was a person. And when that person was in an impossible city that you maybe hated a little bit, well… you tolerated it and rented an already furnished apartment there just for long weekends and work while your actual house sat cold and vacant besides the cleaning service two thousand miles away. 

Then again, in some moments, when you are sitting on a picnic table in the shade of a sprawling tree with a salted caramel custard milkshake and watching your two favorite people spin in circles until they fall over laughing, well… in those moments, Los Angeles may not be so bad. Molly’s giggle was high and loud as she lay on her back, the bright white and purples of her dress standing out against the almost garish green grass. The silver and sparkles of her birthday crown glinted in the bright overhead sunlight and Patrick had never seen anything that he loved more in his entire life, save for the little girl’s father. He was laid out next to her, his laugh just as loud but instead of the airy, light giggle, it was that same braying donkey sound that he had fallen in love with when he was all of sixteen years old. 

He watched from a distance as Molly pushed herself up and started running across the grass back towards him, yelling over her shoulder at Pete who was purposefully going slower than necessary so that his little girl could win the imagined race that they were having. And win she did, not even slowing down before jumping into Patrick’s lap and throwing her little arms around his neck with a squeal of joy. Fortunately, Patrick had become very familiar with this routine over the last year and set his drink down, opening his arms wide in preparation for the now four-year-old missile that crashed into him. 

“Uncle Patrick, save me! Daddy said he was gonna get me and eat my toes! Tell him he can’t eat my toes if I have shoes on!” Molly was laughing in between her statements, punctuating every word with the kind of indignation that only the very young could pull off. Patrick managed to bite back a laugh, but he couldn’t hide his smile as he kissed his Goddaughter on the cheek and grinned at her father as he sprawled out on the picnic table beside them, sunglasses askew and his smile blinding in the midday sun. 

“She’s right, Pete. It is going to be very difficult to eat her shoes if she has shoes on. Besides, I’m sure four-year-old toes don’t taste nearly as good as three-year-old toes.” There was no keeping the laugh out of his words as Molly huffed and shoved her own tiny sunglasses up on her head, pushing strawberry blonde curls out of the way. The ribbons that had held her braided pigtails in place were long gone, lost somewhere between Pete and Lauren’s house and the park, possibly at one of the many stops in between, and the elastic on one was missing as well, the plait unraveling slowly. Molly didn’t seem to care even though she had begged Patrick for the braids when he had gotten to the house this morning, complete with the same puppy dog eyes her father had used. Lauren, unfortunately, and unavoidably, was in Seattle at a conference, although she had fought tooth and nail not to go as to not miss Molly’s birthday. There had been tears all around when she had headed for the airport two days before, although there was already a party planned for the following weekend when everyone would be back. 

The little girl narrowed her honey-colored eyes first at her father and then at her Godfather and shook her head. “My toes are perfect, Mama said so. And Daddy painted them purple to match my dress, so. You’re wrong, Uncle Patrick and I’m gonna go swing.” With that, the little girl was off like a shot, purple Chucks glittering against the grass as she bolted towards the playground equipment that sat a few yards away. The other kids seemed more than happy to have a new addition to whatever game they were playing. From what Patrick could tell, it was a hybrid of tag, red rover and I’m A Little Teapot with a bit of Frozen thrown in for good measure. 

“She is something else, isn’t she?” Pete’s voice was almost wistful as he squirmed on the bench and rested his head on Patrick’s thigh. There were blades of grass tucked in the short strands and Patrick had to ball his hands to not pick them out. 

“She is amazing.” The answer was honest, in every aspect, and Patrick felt a tiny pang of hurt somewhere deep in his chest as he watched Molly play. 

“I helped make that. It’s still amazing to me that I had any part of creating something so fucking perfect. I don’t deserve her, you know? Or you.” Pete’s last words were a bit quieter than the rest and Patrick smiled softly, thankful for the dark lenses of his sunglasses as he brushed his fingers through Pete’s hair, tossing the grass away more for appearance sake than anything else. 

“Not today, Pete. Please.” It was a discussion they had started a million times before and would begin a million times more before it was actually finished, but this was neither the time nor the place and they both knew that. They lapsed into an easy, comfortable silence as both watched Molly and her new friends dashing around on the climbing structures and laughing in the carefree way that only children could; it was beautiful to watch, a little slice of solace in the middle of a city that routinely destroyed all the good that there was in life. Sadly, like most things, it was not meant to last. 

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry, do you mind if I borrow your bench?” The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, shattering Pete and Patrick’s brief moment of solitude and they both startled, Pete bolting upright and Patrick shoving his hands in his pockets as they glanced at the newcomer. 

She was young looking and wholesome, although tired, her dark hair pulled up into a high ponytail and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with some saying on it that Patrick couldn’t make out; her voice was sweet and soft, with some sort southern accent that he couldn’t place, but she seemed kind. The double stroller she leaned against held two, wide-eyed babies, identical from what he could tell, and a red-haired child who looked about Molly’s age was making her way towards the playground. 

Pete sat up almost immediately, kicking his legs down to the bench and sliding over to let the girl sit down. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He spoke with a smile and the girl grinned in the tired way that only parents could as she nearly collapsed on the bench and leaned down to lift one of the babies out of their seat. 

“Thank y’all so much. This is the only table with a good view left that doesn’t hold any of the judgemental mommies today. I get enough of them at playgroup.” The girl had a spine, that was for sure, and Patrick liked her right away. 

“They can be a bit much sometimes, that’s for sure.” Pete agreed with a grin, smiling at the squirming baby in the woman’s arms. 

“If my mother hadn’t raised me right, the things I would have said…” Shifting the baby slightly in her arms, she held out a hand to Pete and smiled at Patrick. “Forgive my lack of manners, please, I’m Georgia, this is Emmaline and Genevieve and the little monster that just ran off is Grace.” 

“I’m Pete, this is Patrick. Molly is the one in the purple and white with the tiara.” There was no small amount of pride in his voice and Patrick couldn’t help but smile back even as Genevieve squeaked from her spot in the stroller. 

“Damn, would you mind?” Patrick barely had time to think before he had an armful of a very happy baby, who was regarding him with wide blue eyes ad Georgia picked up her sister and settled down, rocking her slightly. 

“Sorry, it’s… a lot. I can take her back if-”

“No! No, he doesn’t mind at all, do you, Trick?” Pete was nearly laughing as he spoke, earning a glare, but Patrick just shook his head and shifted to rock the now slightly whining infant.

“I don’t mind at all, but she might. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me.” He mumbled under his breath and bounced the baby just a bit as Pete literally leaned his chin on Patrick’s shoulder to look down at the tiny human. 

“Bullshit, babies love you. Just sing to her, it’ll be fine.” There was so much assurance in Pete’s voice that Patrick couldn’t help but smile as he quietly sang Lullabye under his breath, the same way he had with Molly more times than it could count. It worked by some miracle, and Emmaline’s eyes drifted shut. 

“You’re a baby whisperer, Patrick! She never sleeps like that, ever. If y’all don’t have at least one more than there is no justice in the world.” Georgia’s comment was innocent, nothing more than an observation by an unknown outsider and yet, somehow, it shattered Patrick more than he could have possibly imagined, even as the kids on the playground kept on laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr, I promise I don't bite!


	10. I'm Bad Behavior But I Do It In The Best Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small stages and snow storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am finally back. It has been a very long few weeks. I have gone from not working at all to working literally sixty hours a week in the span of less than a month and have not been able to write anything in forever it seems. sorry. BUT I finally carved out some time to sit down and do this. I hope you like it. 
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter, y'all. But I promise an epilogue as well. 
> 
> This has not, as always, been beta'd because I suck, but my beloved Laudanum_Cafe did read it over and approved it. Thank you Birb Queen. I love you. 
> 
> Questions, comments and kudos make the world go round. 
> 
> Thank you and endless love to the Birb pack for being amazing and supportive while I have been among the missing. Laudanum_Cafe, SnitchesAndTalkers, Das_Verlorene_Kind, Folie_Aplusieurs, Scmi-Sweet and all of my beloved Tumblr folks, I love you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: 'Immortals' by Fall Out Boy. Because of course

February 4, 2013

It was so hot. That in and of itself wasn’t anything new to Patrick, he had been performing for over half of his life, and all of his adult years, the heat in venues wasn’t anything new. He always had been ridiculously sweaty when he was on stage, whether he was in the t-shirt and jeans that he started out in or the ridiculously heavy and tight suits from Soul Punk; it didn’t matter if the stage was in a basement or an amphitheatre, it was a constant and one that he had dearly missed over the last few months. There was, of course, a freedom that came with that; with hiding in a sense. It was something Patrick had grown especially used to, and that was the second constant, although one he was not nearly as proud of. 

There were no expectations going into the album, mostly because nobody knew about it. Dealing in secrets and half-truths, both stated and not, and Pete denying to the very end, well… that was normal. 

This though, this was different; it was new and yet at the exact same time, everything he had ever known. He hadn’t stopped performing, not really; maybe just taken a break, as it were. He had been on stage on and off for the last three years; by himself, with his band, with Travie and a few others, with The Roots; with more friends and people, he respected than he could seem to remember. But this… this was something else entirely; this was scary and real, and wonderful and home. This was Chicago; it was Joe and Andy and Pete. It was Fall Out Boy. It was home. 

They hadn’t even gone on yet and the room was almost stifling; he could feel the dampness itching on the back of his neck, at his wrists under the cuffs of his leather jacket and under his hat; his glasses were already starting to slip and hey hadn’t stepped on stage yet; it was ridiculous, and he knew it. The nerves that he couldn’t explain, that he shouldn’t have, were out in full force, despite himself, or maybe because of him; Patrick really, really wasn’t sure. 

He could hear everything; the murmur of the crowd, Joe chattering away and Pete pacing the length of the tiny hallway and muttering; it almost seemed louder than it would have if he had been talking directly into his ear. And then there was silence, just for a moment, before the opening of Thriller and the roar of a crowd that, while small, was absolutely, unconditionally, home. At that moment, everything was alright again, as it should be. 

It had been so long since he’d had reason to sing these songs live, and he had changed so much, not only his voice which he respected at this point, but who he was as a person… they all had. The questions were rapid-fire constant through his mind as they made their way through a setlist that he should know by heart; songs he had played a thousand times in some cases, ones he knew, he helped create, songs he held dear to his heart and, in a few cases, songs he loathed. But they were theirs; Fall Out Boy was back and that was exactly what this was about. Fighting a nervous smile, at the end of the same high five that he had missed more than he could say, Patrick felt Andy start playing more than he heard it and then everything was right with the world again. 

The crowd was right there with them, screaming back every word with an almost deafening fervor. Pete, fucking Pete, smiled bright enough to light all of Chicago and threw himself off of the tiny stage because of course, he did. The asshole. It was, in the strangest of ways, almost as though they had never left, even though it had been years. 

 

The show was far from perfect, of course. Patrick’s jacket, hat, and glasses were gone not even a quarter of the way through the setlist, and he could feel his t-shirt clinging to him, wet with sweat. It was cramped and almost too small on the stage, although they had played smaller, and between both Pete and Joe’s almost kinetic energy, there were already bruised forming where he had been jostled and pushed; Patrick did not complain. In between Pete hurling himself into the crowd and screaming kids taking their turns stage diving, they somehow made it through the setlist. He couldn’t hear Pete, not really, but he was mouthing every word to all twenty-one songs, new and old, and it was grounding in the most familiar ways. By the time they began Sugar, well… it was almost euphoric in a way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

And then came Saturday and it was all over; Patrick was done, toast. The show ended on a high, and Patrick with it, heady with post-show euphoria and feeling almost immortal even as something hot and dark buzzed through his veins. His cheeks ached from smiling and it was only after he handed his guitar off, and almost instinctively made his way towards the shitty bathroom backstage, such as it was, that he realized what the fuck it was he was doing. It was dark and the door squeaked on its hinges. The sink dripped obnoxiously, a constant splat of water against chipped and stained porcelain that just would not stop, no matter how tightly he turned the cool taps. When the door opened, he didn’t even think, just lifted his gaze from where his hands rested on the cool metal to the streaked and cloudy mirror just as Pete was turning the fragile looking lock. If someone wanted to, they could easily break it with very little effort. Hell, Molly could probably manage it and that was a thought that was very quickly shoved away to the back of his mind, going for as long as possible. That was the kind of Dad and Uncle no-no that resulted in bi-weekly therapy down the road’; It was also the only thing that could bring him down, even just a little bit. And it did. Patrick almost felt as though he deflated, his hands gripping the sink and his shoulders sagging as Pete’s hands rested on his hips, nose running along the sweat-slick skin of his neck. 

“Is this. Do you want?” Pete was soft-spoken, for once in his goddamn life, his voice earnest and his eyes sparkling even in the shitty light, reflecting endlessly in the shitty fucking mirror in the dirty excuse for a bathroom. Patrick actually considered the words for a moment, he weighed his options, even though he knew what his answer would be, despite the sickening heaviness that coiled in his belly, thick and churning. His answer was always the same, even if he told himself over and over that he would change, that this was the last time, that he was done. 

Twisting so the sink dug into the small of his back, Patrick met Pete’s gaze, baby blues and wide-eyed browns as the man himself had penned so many years ago, and all of his reservations, well most of them anyway, drifted away as he fisted Pete’s stupid fucking shirt in his hands, clenching the soft cotton between his fingers and hauling him in as close as possible before crashing their lips together in a kiss that was just as much a challenge as it was a homecoming; it was violent and knowing and familiar and fucking home doused in cheap cologne and highlighted with shitty lights and scraping fingernails, gasped curses and freezing porcelain on sweaty, pale skin; and then it was everything, curled up on Pete’s lap panting and breathless on the filthy floor. They really were back, in every way. 

 

It wasn’t until clothes were tucked back tight, topped with jackets and hats and scarves; all the ephemera of a Chicago winter and sweat had cooled to a sticky-salt itch that the heavy silence set back in; it wasn’t uncomfortable, it never was with Pete, it was just… vast in a way that Patrick could never explain, even though Pete was literally next to them as they headed towards the back door. Pete’s hand, warm and solid squeezed his once before they stepped out into air that was so cold it hurt, stealing his breath and fogging up his glasses. Andy was long gone, and Joe was a blur as he climbed into the passenger side of Marie’s car with a wave. 

“Dadddyyyyyy!” Molly’s little voice was bright and sweet, the first thing Patrick heard before her footsteps, heavy and clumsy in winter boots as she hurled herself at Pete. It was far past her bedtime, but sometimes exceptions could be made, on special occasions anyway. Lauren waited by her car, smile bright as the yellow coat she wore as she waved at first Pete and then Patrick. She was such a good person and Patrick felt that sick sadness creeping in again. Molly babbled to Pete about everything and nothing, pausing only briefly to launch herself at Patrick as he passed by, smacking a sticky kiss against his cheek and extracting a promise of pancakes for breakfast the next morning because he absolutely could not deny her. 

Adjusting his scarf up over his mouth and the bag slung over his shoulder, he made quick work of his goodbyes and headed out into the dark cold of the Chicago night towards home with music echoing in his ears and want in his heart, even as the snow began to fall silent around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr, I promise I don't bite.


	11. I Don't Want To Remember It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And It All Comes Crashing Down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. Kinda. The last proper chapter. The last track. The end of the album. There will be an epilogue, but it will be a bit different from the previous ones because, well... it IS different. Bonus points to anyone who can tell me what track I will use. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd, because that is how I am, although SNitchesANdTalkers and Laudanum_Cafe both read pieces of it during writing. 
> 
> Endless love and thanks to the entire Birb Pack, Snitches, Laudanum, Das_Verlorene_Kind, Scmi-sweet, Flames_And_Jade, AshesSnowAndDreamsDeferred for being you and always supporting me with my ramblings. I love you. ANd to Folie-aplusieurs and Hum_My_Name, thank you for just everything, I am in awe. 
> 
> I will forever be indebted to everyone who took the time to read and/or comment on this tale, I treasure every word and kudos, truly. 
> 
> Aural Pleasure; Twin Skeleton's (Hotel in NYC) by Fall Out Boy
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoy, cause I know I did... and I also cried.

June 20th, 2014 

Even towards the beginning of the tour, hotel nights were a bit of a blessing, in the strangest of ways, almost more so than at the end. Getting acclimated to the road was something that didn’t come easily for Patrick, it never really had, and after a few nights on a bus, he was more than happy to fall into an actual bed, in a real room where he could stretch out. The shower was pretty great too; some things never changed. 

It wasn’t until he was tucked under the pounding spray, letting the heat drain the pleasant ache from his muscles and wash away the sweat from the show and the sticky dried lube and jizz that was smeared between his legs. Seasons change but people don’t, no matter how much he may have wanted them to. His own voice mocked him from inside his head and he frowned. Patrick wasn’t at all oblivious to the damage he was causing, not in the least, and neither was Pete. they had talked about it, more than once and it always, always ended in fighting or fucking, sometimes both and on a few occasions, even at the same time. 

Blinking back the sting of shampoo as it ran into his eyes, Patrick sputtered as he washed up quickly, his nose wrinkling as he grabbed Pete’s body wash. It smelled wretched, but it was handy and the quicker he could get out of the shower, the better. The lather was rich and warm and it smelled like Pete which was kind of absurdly appropriate right now. He sang while he finished up, nothing of theirs, but snippets of songs that were trapped in his head; Misery Business, Nicotine, and Life On Mars; there was no rhyme or reason, just whatever was in his head. Still humming when he turned off the taps, he heard a knock at the door and laughed, shaking his wet hair in his face. Knowing Pete, he’d ordered room service and forgot about that pesky little pants problem. Tucking a towel around his waist and fishing blindly for his glasses on the marble vanity, Patrick blinked through steam fogged glass lingering in the bathroom until he heard the door shut again. NDAs just weren’t always followed. 

“Tell me you at least ordered veggie this time, I refuse to pick all of the-” Patrick stopped dead as he came out of the bathroom, fear stealing his voice and very nearly paralyzing him as he took in the scene in front of him. There was no room service cart. There was, however, Pete’s wife, standing in the tiny entryway looking lovely and fucking happy as anything. 

“Patrick!” Lauren looked genuinely pleased to see him and it tore Patrick apart. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and was conspicuously toddler free. Glancing over at Pete who, despite his earlier thoughts, was in boxers instead of a towel, he saw a flash of fear in amber eyes, and a stiffness in movements that were usually fluid and graceful, in the strangest of ways as Lauren wrapped him in a warm embrace. “I know I wasn’t supposed to come out until next month but mom took Molly for the weekend so I could come out for my birthday, it just wasn’t the same without you. You can fully blame me for the secrecy on me, Andy and Joe just gave me the name of the hotel.” She talked freely and pulled away from Pete to head into the suite, kissing Patrick’s cheek as she passed. Fuck. “I know I should have probably let you know but I wanted it to be a surprise an-” Lauren stopped mid-sentence and Patrick didn’t even have to turn around to know what she was seeing, he had the memory of it burned into his mind, and imprinted on his skin beneath the towel and along his neck. He looked anyway. 

One bed was perfectly made up, pristine even, with stark white duvet and pillows arranged just so. There were suitcases stacked carefully along its surface, the lid on one flipped open and a backpack on the floor. The other bed was a mess, it's use obvious. The blanket was rumpled and half hanging to the floor, and clothing was scattered around haphazardly; a pair of black jeans was slung over the desk chair, a hoodie caught on the nightstand and Patrick’s boxers hanging on the lamp by the bed. Besides the mess, there was a foil packet gleaming green against the stark white bed. They hadn’t bothered with a condom, just lube and it seemed almost stupid in hindsight, despite how fucking good it had felt at the time. 

“Pete?” The happiness was gone from her voice, leaving a questioning, almost painful coldness that sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine. Her bag hitting the floor was almost deafening in the heavy silence. “What’s going on?” Lauren was calm, too calm, and there was an eerie stillness to her words as Patrick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Ren it’s no-”

“Don’t you dare fucking say it’s not what it looks like, Peter. Don’t you fucking dare. You can shut up for once. Patrick.” Pete looked almost shocked, and his eyes dropped to his feet. Patrick didn’t have that luxury as Lauren crossed the space between them, the plush carpet silencing her footsteps. She was close, so close that he could smell her perfume, and it was sweet and sugary and made his stomach turn. “Tell me.” The demand and there was no doubt it was one, was quiet, almost a whisper and Patrick’s stomach churned as he met her green eyes that flashed with hurt and anger. 

“I-” Patrick’s voice cracked in a way it hadn’t in years, and his throat wanted to close up, to lock the words in and keep them to himself; he knew what they were doing was wrong, it always had been, and yet he had done it anyway, with not a single thought otherwise, for anyone else. “I love him. You have to know that, Lauren. Fucking…. Everyone knows, except him maybe. It doesn’t mean that-” He heard the crack before he felt the sting; it was an almost delayed gratification in the strangest of ways; The physical pain was perfect, he needed it, even as his head turned and his glasses flew and skidded to a stop against one of Pete’s hideous shoes. There wasn’t much strength behind the slap, not really, but there was more hurt written on Lauren's pretty face than Patrick thought he could deal with. Her eyes wandered over the expanse of his bare skin, lingering on the bruises from Pete's lips and the red scratches from his blunt nails. 

Pete may have been a smart man, but he didn’t have a lick of intelligence sometimes. Patrick was fine, and oddly unafraid of Lauren, but Pete, being Pete, had rested a hand on Lauren’s slim shoulder, bare beneath the strap of her blue sundress. “Lauren.” There was no slap for Pete. Lauren’s delicate hand balled into a fist and caught Pete on the jaw, causing him to stumble backward, although he didn’t fall. Lauren, however, did. She pulled into herself as she turned back to Patrick, and fell to her knees, tears falling down her cheeks. It was one of the worst things Patrick had ever witnessed and it was absolutely his fault. 

“I knew, I did and I didn’t want to admit it. I’d heard the whispers for years but I never fully believed them, although some part of me always knew.” She wasn’t talking to either of them right now, not really; she was just spilling out words simply because she could. “I’m not surprised just disappointed. Hurt maybe, disappointed definitely, but not mad, not really.” Her voice was soft again, almost serene, and although she was still crying, she seemed more in control than anyone else in the room. 

Patrick had no right to feel bad, none at all; he was just as at fault in this as Pete was. Pete. It took a minute for everything to click in Patrick’s mind and even longer for him to drag his gaze from Lauren, quietly crying on the floor, to rest on her husband. Pete’s eyes were trained steadfastly on his bare feet, studying either them or the carpet beneath with an intensity that was usually reserved for songwriting or the stage. Seeing it out of context, and through such a skewed perspective was just wrong. 

The silence was almost pervasive, broken by tiny gasps and sniffles from Lauren and the low hum of the air conditioner as it pumped air that was far too cold from the vents overhead. The knock on the door was nearly violent in the quiet and pulled the attention of everyone in the room, although nobody moved. It was Lauren who responded first, swiping tiny hands over her cheeks to catch stray tears before pushing herself up on shaky legs and opening the door. Pete and Patrick were both still frozen in place, watching as she moved with a stilted grace to pull the room service cart inside and close the door again. There was a squeaky wheel on it that made Patrick want to rip his hair out. Then again, maybe he was projecting. 

It was still and quiet for just another moment before the deafening crash at the cart, squeaky wheel and all was pushed with a force that was at odds with Lauren’s tiny size, against the edge of the used bed. Glasses, plates, flatware, and food scattered across the clean white surface, covering it and the evidence of their earlier exploits in shards of glimmering crystal, charred bread, smears of vivid red sauce and bright bits of vegetables. It was almost amusing, in some obscure and absolutely wrong way, that Patrick found the vaguest hint of solace in the fact that Pete did actually order the veggie pizza. Small consolations indeed. 

There was nothing but silence as Lauren gathered her bags and headed back towards the door, the only sound from her a stifled sob before the lock clicked shut. Something about that sound, the finality of it all brought everything into a razor sharp relief and everything was just too much, too loud, too cold… it was stifling. And so he looked for Pete, the same as he always had for more than a decade; he looked for that familiarity, that comfort, that knowledge that for the next few minutes everything would be okay. He did not find it. Pete finally looked up, his usually bright eyes scarily dull and shining with wet tears as he met Patrick’s gaze. And then he fell apart, crumbling to the luggage covered bed in an obscene mimicry of his wife only a few minutes earlier. Patrick moved on instinct, crossing to him in a heartbeat and shoving suitcases and clothes to the floor before pulling Pete down to the bed and just laying there as he sobbed, half asked questions that really, REALLY couldn’t be answered lingering between them. His mind was whirling, but with nothing that could be spoken aloud and so he just kept quiet and held Pete while he sobbed until sleep overtook them both. Tomorrow, no doubt, would hold nothing but chaos, and it was absolutely of their own creation, but tonight, in this hotel in the middle of New York City, they could just hold on, maybe until it dulled the pain, at least for now. When the sun rose, it would bring everything back and they could deal with it then, but for now, while the sky was still dark, maybe, just maybe, they could get through the night and then take it from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet over on Tumblr if you want to chat. Please come say hi?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [It's Our Time Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780913) by [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet)




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